Ectomancer
by RustyRed
Summary: Falling through puddles and magic gone haywire are just a few of Harry's newest problems. With the Ministry falling apart and Voldemort unearthing ancient secrets, will Harry uncover the truth in time? Post-OotP.
1. Idiot's Guide to the Mundane World

CHAPTER 1

Harry was having troubles.

Unfortunately, this wasn't exactly news, as he'd been having all manner of troubles since before he could remember. In fact to say he had troubles would be like saying gravity worked—just another universal constant.

Thunder rumbled, and a downy pair of talons shifted in his hair. He sighed. "Hedwig, get off my head. It was funny the first time, but now it's just getting old."

The owl twittered in a self-satisfied manner. Harry supposed he should be amazed that Hedwig had a strong enough grasp of the English language to understand why it was amusing when she sat on his head, but he didn't quite have the energy. Like any small child might, she had worn out the joke a long time ago. It was probably her way of trying to cheer him up, figuring if he'd chuckled at it once he would do so again.

Despite himself, his lip couldn't help quirking, and he reached up to ruffle her feathers. "Silly bird."

His creaking neck attested to how heavy she was—though he wasn't certain, he imagined she should have stopped growing by now—but compressed discs were the least of his worries at the moment. And, as if he were afflicted with some kind of mental Tourette's, the familiar thought intruded:

Sirius was dead.

It had taken him weeks to get to this point—where he could truly say there was not some treacherous part of him that still believed, in the deepest recesses of his mind, that there was some way to undo what had been done. Sirius was not a ghost. He was not simply trapped somewhere, waiting for rescue. The little mirror—that damn device which, had Harry only thought of it, could have stopped it all from happening—lay shattered against Harry's bedroom wall even now.

Sirius was dead.

Once he'd accepted it, the words had become inescapable, a quiet mantra lurking behind every thought. Incessant. Infuriating. Maddening.

He remembered those first days, when he'd alternated between explosive rage—at everyone, including Sirius, but mostly himself—and a bone-deep weariness that verged on catatonia. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd left Number 4 with his hands twitching and the fixtures rattling. More than once, the juxtaposition of Vernon's golf clubs next to the man's car in the garage had been almost too much to resist.

But resist Harry had, managing to do minimal damage to the Dursley's property in a feat of what he acknowledged to be superhuman restraint. Left unresolved, his anger forced him to venture in ever widening circles in order to reign it in. Some days he ranged so far he had to hop a bus to get back to the house. Unseasonable storms had been tearing across the countryside, flooding some neighborhoods and ripping roofs off others, so it was no surprise that he rarely saw anyone else out in the rain.

Some part of him knew it was a bad idea to bottle up his anger like that, and if he didn't have a psychotic break first, he might just end up dead of pneumonia. Like now—he was sitting in the grass, surrounded by the scrubby bushes and trees clogging up the little green space between neighborhoods, while thunder rolled above. His baggy clothes lay plastered against his skin from the constant precipitation, which fell on him unimpeded save for the stubborn owl perched on his head.

But sometimes it was, quite literally, the only way he could cool off. Between losing his head at his idiot relatives, and working himself into spirals of self-loathing and crippling doubt, he'd begun to notice that something was… wrong.

And of course it wasn't enough that his godfather was dead and a treasured dream of shelter and hope for the future had come crashing down with him, or that Sirius' death lay squarely on Harry's shoulders, or that a madman was after his blood and Harry was supposedly the _only_ one who could stop him (_with no training, no advantage, and no time, thanks_). No, the icing on the cake, the _pièce de__ résistance, _was that for the past several weeks—with alarming frequency—Harry had been unintentionally shattering, exploding, igniting, shredding, and generally destroying all manner of mundane objects.

He was the one prophesized to defeat Voldemort, and he was losing control of his magic.

* * *

The rain was coming down in sheets as he trudged back toward the Dursleys, and the wind picked up periodically to slap him in the face with droplets. Hedwig swooped close by overhead, but no one was out to witness his 'freakishness', and he didn't mind the company. He could tell she really wanted to ride on his shoulder, but she would soon be too big to be able to stay on, and he'd told her so.

Steam rolled off him in waves, although it didn't feel particularly cold out. It mirrored the way his magic felt—bubbling just beneath the skin, chaotic and unpredictable. He didn't like it, which made him angry, which only fed the problem.

He wondered cynically if he was in some kind of wizard regression. He couldn't even check to see if his wand-work had suffered, since he was still underage and it was illegal to cast anything. Maybe he was in some kind of developmental reversal, and after his stopover at accidental magic he would eventually end up a Squib. He squinted skyward, and thought that would be just his luck.

Upon reaching the doorstep, Harry was greeted with a screech from his aunt. "Filthy boy! Where do you go crawling around all day?" But it lacked any real feeling, and he could tell it was more for posterity's sake than anything else.

Harry simply sighed, shucking his shoes and carrying them up the stairs. She was probably just disappointed that he hadn't managed to get himself struck by lightning yet. He combed his fingers through his unruly black hair, and sprinkled the bits of pine needles over the banister as he went. She would have him sweeping the entire house regardless; he might as well earn it.

He reached his room, illuminated only by orange beams of straggling sunlight that spilled through his open window, and flopped back on his bed with a noisy exhalation. Hedwig flapped in from the windowsill to land on his chest, as she was wont to do lately, and drove the rest of wind out of him.

"Silly bird," he greeted her, scrunching up his eyes when she nibbled at his nose with her black beak. "You really are getting quite big, you know. You must still be growing." He frowned with amusement as she padded unsteadily from his chest to his stomach and back again, dripping rainwater all over his shirt. "Any letters for me?"

She twittered, gracing him with a luminous yellow gaze.

"Oh good," he said. But instead of rising to check the small pile of envelopes by the window, he closed his eyes. He already knew what they would all be saying—the same things they'd been saying for the past several weeks. He didn't need to read, again, someone telling him that nothing was his fault. He didn't need anyone telling him that he'd done the best he could. They didn't understand that he couldn't afford to make mistakes. They didn't understand the responsibility that threatened to smother him even now. They thought it was okay to tell him he'd done nothing wrong.

He tossed an arm over his face. He knew they only had the best of intentions, but pity and sympathy made him angrier than everything else. It was like they were advocating the way he had acted—like they saw him as the victim rather than the perpetrator. How could they so easily excuse him from responsibility?

Sirius was dead.

He could have simply floated off into oblivion right at that moment—blackness crept into the corners of his vision as he stared at the back of his arm, and he felt as if the bed would swallow him.

But loose items around his room began to rattle with the rhythmic thud of a heavy set of feet coming up the stairs. His heart rate had just begun to pick up in anxiety when a shape of walrus proportions darkened his doorway.

"Up, boy!" Uncle Vernon demanded, and Harry could just imagine the rain of spit that accompanied the words. "You are not going to force your aunt to slave away in that kitchen all on her own while you lay about. Up!"

Harry swallowed a sigh and rolled to his feet, dislodging Hedwig and sending her flapping to the dresser. He stepped by his uncle warily—the man was bright red and blowing like a racehorse, but that could have merely been a side effect of his journey up the stairs.

All through dinner, Harry felt the same sense of detachment that had plagued him on and off all summer. It was just beyond his ability to stomach, watching his aunt and uncle and cousin Dudley bickering around the table. Listening to them argue over the last bit of cantaloupe, or sending snide comments his way. They were so petty and insular, so… ordinary. His vision glazed over as he sat, and he couldn't stop himself from seeing the events of the Ministry in his mind's eye. Images flashed: the dream (even now, he could hardly convince himself Sirius hadn't really been tortured), the flight on the thestrals, the battle amongst the prophecies, the race through the Department of Mysteries, Dumbledore's duel against Voldemort, and…

The veil.

"If you puke at this table, I will take out my belt, boy!"

Vernon's barking voice brought him back to the present, and Harry realized how tense his face had become. With an effort, he smoothed out his features and tried to squash his emotions. "Got it," he replied quietly.

Vernon brandished his fork at Harry once for good measure, before returning to his pork chop and a story about the office window-washer. Petunia was primly eating her peas and nodding to every word, and Dudley seemed to have half a chop in his maw, while the other half waited in the wings, and his attention was glued to the kitchen television. Harry stared at them all. They were oblivious. His stomach soured with the realization that he envied them.

He stood and shoved his chair back, grabbing his plate and departing before he could convince himself that it would be reasonable to hex the lot of them.

Halfway to the sink his plate shattered in his hand. Petunia shrieked, and Vernon thundered, but Harry could only stare, uncomprehending, at the ceramic shards as they clattered to the floor.

Petunia came after him with a hand towel and whacked him several times with it before shouldering him out of the way to scoop up the bits of broken plate.

Their angry voices buzzed in the background as he excused himself from the room, utterly drained and confused. One thing was for certain—he had a big problem.

* * *

He awoke the next morning with a sense of something he hadn't possessed in ages: purpose. Well, he reflected, beyond the all-encompassing purpose of bumping Voldemort off the mortal coil, at least.

He'd thought long and hard about how to go about solving his newest problem. His first reaction had been to pen a letter to his obnoxiously intelligent friend Hermione. He'd run into troubles in figuring out just how to phrase his question, though: _Say Hermione, I think I'm turning into a Squib; what should I do?_ _Hey Hermione, I'm setting things on fire; any ideas? So Hermione, I have this _friend…

She would know the theoretical 'friend' was him, and would probably tell the Order. Then Dumbledore would be setting up five more sets of walls around him, spouting reassurances while at the same time saying nothing at all. _Oh no, Harry, the 'power Voldemort knows not' is the complete _absence_ of power. You will defeat the Dark Lord through _irony_ alone!_

No, that wouldn't do. He couldn't talk to Hermione about this until he had a chance to convince her of the need for secrecy in person, and since Harry didn't have the resources of Hogwarts at his fingertips, he was really left with only one option: undercover shopping in Diagon Alley.

_What joy_, he thought darkly as he laced up his trainers. If he wasn't recognized by some element of the media or wizarding public, he was likely to be accosted by Death Eaters. If he were honest with himself, the former filled him with at least as much dread as the latter. But it couldn't be helped—he could either brave the Alley, or he could wait and see how long it would take for him to spontaneously combust in a fit of uncontrolled anger.

He knew the Order had people watching the house. Frankly, at this point he was wasn't going to wait and see if he had their permission to leave, and he didn't care whether they followed him or not. If they somehow lost him, he wouldn't be disappointed. So, armed with baseball cap and a pair of slightly bent aviator sunglasses over his normal lenses, Harry hoofed it to the bus stop just outside the neighborhood before the sun had properly cleared the trees, looking over his shoulder in an effort to spot anyone following him.

The connecting train ride downtown was long, chilly, and uneventful. Harry kept glancing at the few other passengers, who were wearing business suits and robotically drinking coffee during their morning commutes, and found it both refreshing and disconcerting that he didn't have to worry about _them_ staring at _him_. After months in the wizarding world, it felt strange and liberating to not be recognized in public.

He hopped off the train near his stop and walked the six blocks toward the Leaky Cauldron. Ducking in and out of London traffic, he felt like a ragamuffin in his worn out jeans and faded brown tee, but it was likely the sunglasses and '87 Chicago Cubs hat that were earning him sideways glances. Unfortunately, it was the only hat Harry could dig up that hadn't looked like it wanted to be paired with a three-piece suit.

He spied the Leaky Cauldron—with passersby avoiding it like water eddying around a rock in a stream—and ducked inside. The warm, smoky air hit him in a rolling blast, but he didn't take any time to linger. He was out the back door before anyone even had a chance to look up, and followed another group of wizards through the arch in the bricks.

Diagon Alley was almost deserted this time of morning—or at least, he hoped that was the only reason for such light foot traffic. Many of the shops weren't even open yet, but he knew his target destination, Flourish and Blotts, would be.

"Harry Potter?" screeched someone behind him, and Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. Glancing back, he realized it was simply a pair of ladies talking animatedly, waving around a copy of a newspaper. He gulped, trying to slow his galloping heart, and ticked another year off his life expectancy, courtesy of the Daily Prophet.

No one had seen him yet, and he felt unusually lucky. Ducking into the front door of Flourish and Blotts, he heard someone mutter, "Bloody Potter…"

Harry grit his teeth when he realized man at the front counter was also nose deep in the Daily Prophet, and wondered morbidly what the paper was saying about him today that had everyone in such a froth. He tugged the hat a bit lower. "Sir, could you tell me where I might find some books on, er, Squibs?"

The sales clerk gave him a squinty sort of glance, but pointed him toward the back of the store without comment.

Harry nodded in thanks and followed the directions, past the normal, well-tended isles, and into territory he'd never traversed. The rows of books grew closer together, the light grew dim, and spines grew dustier. In the very furthest corner, he spied several titles that seemed indicate he was in the right place: _So Your Kid's a Squib, _and_ Shades of Beige: Life as a Muggle, _and _The Idiot's Guide to the Mundane World_. Harry swallowed, overcome with an irrational fear that to touch these books was to make them come true.

_Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived-Long-Enough-To-Become-A-Muggle_, he mocked himself as he scanned the titles for anything that looked helpful. _If they could only see you now._

He soon discovered, however, that most of the books talked about children who had never manifested any power, and that wasn't exactly helpful to him. There were a few that discussed growing old and losing powers, but it seemed most of them actually chalked it up to becoming senile, rather than any quantifiable loss.

Further down the row were some texts about magical maladies that could result in a loss of power, but he looked through them carefully and found himself sharing none of the symptoms. Maybe it would be under wild magic, he thought to himself, and set off again.

A half hour later, Harry was no closer to his goal, and the shop was beginning to wake up. Stomach growling in harmony with his own irritated grumblings, he made for the front of the store. He couldn't really call the trip a total loss though—he was certainly relieved that his symptoms didn't match anything he'd been able to read about. Unfortunately, that also meant that he still didn't know what was wrong with him, and the idea that it was something highly unusual wasn't very comforting.

Under his arm he carried _The Auror's Starter Companion_, a hefty book of recommended hexes and charms for anyone hoping to get into the Auror Program, as well as _Spellsmith's Almanac: 1930 – 1960_, a rather yellowed book full of homemade, non-Ministry Approved spells, as well as tips on how they were designed and performed. One thing that stood out to Harry as he reflected on what he'd seen in his short time as a wizard was watching the way Dumbledore fought. There wasn't anyone else who dueled quite like the old man did, and Harry knew that if he wanted to be that good, one of the only people capable of teaching him was the headmaster himself. Barring that, which seemed rather likely, Harry would have to teach himself.

That is, he reminded himself, if he managed to get his magic back under control.

"Would you like me to shrink those for you?" asked the cashier.

"Please," Harry nodded. He couldn't wait for the day when he would be able to do these things for himself. Giving the fellow a smile of thanks, he slipped the wallet-sized books into his pocket and stepped out into the sunshine.

He looked left, toward the distant monstrosity of Gringotts, and right, around the twisting lane that led back toward the Leaky Cauldron and Muggle London. With a sigh, he realized he was out of options, unless he went looking for bookstores down one of Diagon's branch alleys. He didn't imagine anything dealing with squibs would be found down Knockturn, unless it was related to human trafficking. He turned resignedly to the right, and was pleasantly surprised to see Florean Fortescue already setting out street side chairs.

"You're opening early," Harry remarked with a grin as he neared the ice cream shop.

"Ah!" The kindly man seemed truly gobsmacked for a moment, before his face broke into a wide smile. "Why if it isn't Mr. Potter! My word, it's good to see you, my young friend!"

"And you," Harry returned sincerely, wincing slightly at the man's volume. Ever since that summer before third year, when Harry had been put up at the Leaky Cauldron, Florean Fortescue had been one of his favorite vendors. Free ice cream, _and _the man had somehow made Magical History interesting. "How is business these days?"

"Oh, can't complain, can't complain. Times being what they are and all—oh, have a seat, Mr. Potter," Fortescue insisted gregariously, pulling out a chair. "I want you to try my newest concoction!"

Harry, reflecting that this turn of events was exactly what he'd been hoping for, was happy to oblige. He reclined in the little wicker chair, safe behind a screen of marigolds, and watched flurries of people go by, wondering how long this sort of peace would last. His gaze drifted over the sunny street before coming back around to observe Fortescue through window glass as the man bustled about behind the counter. It was all so fragile, he thought. So easy for one man to wreak havoc on this little world.

He realized he'd been staring at something plastered across Fortescue's shop front, and focused on it. _The Galloping Galleon_, he read, frowning in puzzlement. From what he could tell it was an ad for some sort of wizarding show. But apparently it was either meant to be mysterious, or it was taken for granted that everyone who needed to know about it already did. At any rate, if the gold lettering and Art Nuevo-style of the scene it depicted (which looked like nothing so much as a big-top circus arena) were indications, it was quite an important event.

"There we are, Mr. Potter." Florean Fortescue had reappeared with dish in hand. He deposited it before Harry with a flourish. "Have at it!"

Harry picked up the spoon, and eyed the dessert doubtfully. It was mostly pale green, but there were swirls of bright orange and little chunks of something reddish-brown deposited throughout. It honestly looked a bit like someone had tried to eat a handful of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, and then changed their mind at the last minute. "Wow, this looks… What flavor did you say it was?"

"It's green tea and mango swirl, with red bean accents," Fortescue responded proudly. "I've been dabbling in flavors of a more eastern persuasion, you see."

Harry nodded sadly. He had been hoping for chocolate. "What's that, if you don't mind my asking?" he asked, pointing at the poster. His hope was to distract the man long enough to take a taste without broadcasting his reaction.

"Oh, this?" Fortescue asked, looking up at the colorful ad.

Harry quickly went in for a bite. He squinted at the flavor, and his head twisted sideways of its own volition. It wasn't as bad as he'd been expecting, but…

"The _Galloping Galleon_ is something of a get together for the who's who in wizarding culture, I suppose," Fortescue was saying. "It's a big to-do every summer. I've been asked to help cater several times, in fact."

"Oh, yeah, I guess I have heard of it," Harry lied uncomfortably. It seemed there was always another reminder that he was still essentially an outsider. He wondered how many wizarding affairs he was oblivious to. Really, he spent all year at a school where his only contact with the outside world came through the newspaper or his friends. Of those friends, he spent the vast majority of his time with Hermione and Ron. Hermione was muggle-born, and Ron—brilliant friend though he was—wasn't exactly on the cutting edge of magical culture as far as Harry could tell.

"So what do you think of the new flavors?"

"Right." Harry floundered for a moment. "It's, er… It's really not bad. Takes a little getting used to." He tried for an encouraging smile.

"Excellent!" The man clapped his hands together enthusiastically, and slapped Harry on the shoulder. "I've still some setting up to do, but you just sit and enjoy that, Mr. Potter. On the house!"

"Oh… you shouldn't have…" Harry protested weakly, but the ice cream vendor had already disappeared into the shop. Harry sighed. He was sorely tempted to bolt, but somebody had to eat this damn ice cream or Florean Fortescue would have a sad day.

Harry poked at his frozen treat and reflected grimly that he was back to square one. But at least he'd made it out in public without any mishaps. No mobs of reporters, no Death Eater attacks, no Voldemort sightings. All in all, it had been a pretty uneventful trip. If he were completely honest with himself, he was a little bit—

A wall of air and debris slammed into him with the force of a freight train, just before a cracking boom nearly blew out his eardrums. He flew (along with his table, chair, and bowl of ice cream) into the side of the ice cream shop. His head impacted the glass amidst a spider-web of cracks, and a potted plant smashed into his gut in the same moment. He was dimly aware of people running in all directions, and a ringing, buzzing in his ears. Coughing, he pulled himself to his feet, and squinted into the billowing dust. Death Eaters, here? His aviators were cracked, hanging from one ear, and he tossed them away. He could just barely make out shadows in the shifting rubble, and lurched back as a bolt of red missed him by inches.

In that moment his mind cleared, and his blood thrummed with anticipation. Finally! Finally, the bastard was making a move!

His wand was already in his hand, and he lunged forward as more spells shot from the midst of the explosion, targeting random people in the street. Quickly, he cast, "_Protego_!" The shield was little more than a wisp, and he felt panic. _No_, he thought, grinding his teeth, _this can't be happening now_. "_Protego!" _he shouted again, throwing up barriers behind the victims—couples, families, and children. This time the shields blazed into existence, bright and strong.

The Death Eaters were shooting at everyone.

Harry cast a mirror spell over himself before slipping up the street and dashing across it. Another Harry copied his movements several meters away, and what fire the doppelganger didn't manage to draw, Harry dodged or deflected.

He slipped down the alley just on the other side of the building adjacent to the explosion, jumping over a pile of crates and a mound of refuse before he spotted a balcony over a low window. A flick of his wand shoved a dumpster into place, and he vaulted up. A strong push off the windowsill with his foot sent him onto the balcony, and from there he hauled himself up onto the shingled roof. He scrambled for the roof's peak and crouched behind a crooked chimneystack, where he had a bird's eye view of the enemy.

They were just beginning to move out into the street.

Casting quickly, Harry banished the few civilians he could see out of his way, before muttering, "_Accio _wall." The big fieldstones that made up the walls of Quality Quidditch Supplies tore loose with an almighty racket. He grimaced for the store, but didn't flinch when the microwave-sized stones bombarded the gang of black-robed figures. Heavy, meaty thuds sounded as the rocks hit home, taking out half of them.

Dashing closer over the shingled roof (while belatedly dodging the few stones that had continued on in their original trajectory), Harry began shooting stunners and body-bind curses as quickly as he could. The Death Eaters were wheeling about, and several sent curses his way. Harry raised a shield, trying to figure out how he could break up the quickly regrouping opposition. Inspiration came quickly, and he shouted, "_Expecto Patronum!_" The monstrous silver stag erupted from his wand and, at his direction, thundered toward the group of Death Eaters.

They were being harried from more than one side now, and the appearance of a giant, glowing buck in their midst was more than they could handle. In that moment of confusion, Harry sent several stunners whizzing down that were so charged they snapped like fireworks. Two black-robed figures dropped, and more were falling to spells from street level. In the face of three more stunners from Harry, the last two toppled. The street went still as the dust began to settle.

Harry slid down the shingles to the demolished side of the building and dropped to the ground. His intention was to get a look at the destruction, to try and figure out what spell had caused it exactly, but from what his inexperienced eye could determine, it looked like nothing so much as muggle bomb.

There was something odd about all of this. What had their mission been? Firing randomly into the crowd just seemed like wanton terrorism—which, granted, did seem like something Voldemort would orchestrate—but it had been so sloppy, and the Death Eaters had been taken down so easily.

Harry stuck his wand in his back pocket and pulled off his hat to scrub a hand through his hair, thoroughly mystified. A glance toward the street told him the Death Eaters were in the process of suffering through a civilian arrest, and he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh as a slightly dumpy housewife sat on the back of one and twisted his arms around.

Then he felt a swooping sensation in his gut as he realized exactly who he was looking at: Molly Weasley. He ducked against the side of the building, but it was impossible to hide there, especially with everyone glancing in his direction to get a look at the rubble from the explosion.

He cursed silently, and tried to calm his breathing. He would just have to tread carefully, normally, until he got to the street, and then blend in with the rest of the gawkers. Whipping his baseball cap back on and sticking his hands in his pockets, he tried his best to saunter over the chunks of rock and smoking timbers. Despite his own feelings on the matter, the Order didn't want him leaving Privet Drive unsupervised—if Molly caught him here, he was dead.

He was so close—just a few more paces to the street. He was actually holding his breath, eyes glued to the back of Molly Weasley's head, which was probably why he didn't notice the person who slid up next to him and hooked one vulture claw through his arm.

"Haaarry Potter," purred a venomous voice in his ear.

He froze, and that was all the advantage Rita Skeeter needed to yank him into the dim doorway of a recently vacated shop. Plaster dust was still trickling from the ceiling, but apparently Skeeter was not one to quibble about structural soundness.

She pounced immediately, brilliant teeth flashing against blood red lips. "What brings you out and about on this fine summer day, Mr. Potter?"

Harry's eyes jumped from her glittering nails on his arm to her predatory teeth and back again, and he swallowed. "Er, you know, just shopping…"

She gave him a look of mock disbelief. "After all this time with nothing but public silence, you finally show up on the very same day that a group of Death Eaters attacks Diagon Alley? My, my, circumstances are not in your favor today…"

Harry felt a hot flash of anger. "If you're suggesting I was _helping _them, maybe you should rewind the tape and see who fired at—" He immediately clamped down, and wished he hadn't spoken at all when he saw the flash of triumph in her eyes. She did have a point, though; the timing was suspicious. Could it have been more than coincidence?

"Oh, going vigilante, eh Harry?"

"If I were, you'd be the last to know about it," he shot back, jerking his sleeve free from her clutches.

"Nice disguise, kid!" she chortled as he ducked out of the shop.

Great, now he'd been officially spotted by the press. It was time to get home before something else went wrong with this day. He tugged his cap lower, pulling fringe down for extra measure, and skirted around the outside of the crowd that had gathered around the fallen Death Eaters. He managed a glimpse of them, as they were getting their faces ground into the dirt by several red-robed Aurors, and felt his jaw drop.

"They're just kids," he breathed.

Rattled, he pushed on through the throng, trying to sort out this new information. Were they the Junior Death Eaters, or just knock-offs? He wasn't sure which was worse. If there were people out imitating Voldemort's followers… that meant the Order had more than just one faction to deal with, _and_ it meant that the Death Eaters, and Voldemort, had yet to make a real move. He felt a swell of frustration at the whole situation.

Idiot kids. Idiot Dark Lord.

He snapped his fingers in irritation, and almost wasn't surprised when the air ignited for a brief moment in a crackle of flame. While people on all sides ran in the other direction toward the battle site, Harry paused in the street, holding his fingers up, and snapped them again. There was a little flash, and the scent of smoke. He shook his head, and kept walking.


	2. The Auror's Starter Companion

CHAPTER 2

When he arrived back at the Dursley's it was nearly noon, and Petunia met him at the door with an envelope and a stiff lip that bespoke untold levels of hardship. When Harry turned over the yellowed parchment and saw the curling script, it told him everything he needed to know.

Up in his room, Harry opened the letter with no small amount of trepidation. Did news make print so quickly? Had Dumbledore already found out about his little excursion?

_Dear Harry,_

_I hope this note finds you well. I had hoped to pay you a visit today, but it seems my timing is rather poor as usual, and I seem to have missed you. If you would, please let me know when you might have some time to discuss a few pressing matters._

_ Sincerely,_

_ Albus Dumbledore_

Harry slowly crumpled the letter and sat down on his bed. He was asking for time to discuss pressing matters? A bitter part of Harry wondered why this had been so difficult last year. Certainly there were pressing matters to discuss then. In fact, he couldn't really imagine _anything_ more pressing than 'Oh by the way, there's a prophecy about you, and it's pretty much up to you to save us all.' He clenched the letter harder within his fist, gritting his teeth. When he looked down and saw the way the air was rippling around his hand, he realized he needed to calm down.

With a sigh, he relaxed his grip, and let the ball of parchment fall to the floor. He was acting like a child. Just because he was angry with the old man didn't mean he should put other people in jeopardy. Until this was all over, the truth of the matter was, his life was not his own. Maybe Dumbledore had a plan, or at least some advice.

Reluctantly, he reached down to retrieve the letter. Smoothing it out, he read it over again. It certainly was more succinct than what Harry had come to expect from Dumbledore. Maybe the old man had just been in a hurry. Harry reached for a quill, shaking his head. Scratching out a quick reply—tomorrow at noon—he called softly to his owl. "Hedwig."

She swooped down to him in a rush of air, blowing the fringe of his hair away from his face. "You pretty bird," he murmured, ruffling the feathers around her neck as one might a dog. She didn't seem to mind, since her big eyes slid partway closed and she leaned into it. "Want to take this to the old man?" he asked her, tying the note to one downy leg. She chirruped, and he carried her to the window. "Off you go."

He watched her wing away into the gathering storm, a dash of white against the distant rain. When she had disappeared beyond the gusting downpour, he turned away and stared at the floor, thinking.

He needed help. Obviously his problem was beyond his limited talents as a researcher. He frowned. That was really something he needed to work on—a few epiphanies a year didn't seem to be giving him enough practice, and anyway, those epiphanies had usually been heavily ushered in by Hermione. With a resigned twist of his mouth, he pulled out parchment and quill and drew a chair over to his battered old desk by the window.

_Hermione,_

The quill tip hovered over the page, and he wrestled with himself. He wanted her help, but _only_ hers. Could he trust her not to discuss his situation with others? What about Dumbledore? How often did the Headmaster check up on Harry's friends? He tapped the laden quill against the page for a moment, heedless of the spots of ink. Hang it all, he thought. He'd just have to ask.

_Hermione,_

_I hope your summer is going well so far. Thank you for writing to me; I appreciate what you said in your last letter. I've been better, but you probably already knew that. Ron mentioned heading to the Burrow at the end of the month. Are you going? I'll try to find out whether I'm allowed to or not—hopefully tomorrow, when I talk to Dumbledore._

_Your friend,_

_ Harry_

_P.S. I was wondering if you could help me with a little problem. It's nothing drastic, but before I give you any details, I really want to make sure this stays just between us. I hope that's okay—if you don't feel comfortable about it, please let me know. I'd just rather not discuss this with a committee, you know? Let me know as soon as you can, since it's kind of a time sensitive issue. Thanks!_

He read over the note again, hoping it sounded casual enough. He didn't want her thinking it was an emergency, but he also hoped she took his plea for secrecy seriously. He hoped adding it in as an afterthought made it seem less important, and tried to ignore the fact that the postscript was just as long as the main letter.

Rolling his shoulders uneasily, he pushed the parchment away, to be dealt with when Hedwig returned. He'd mail it out tonight, if the storm let up enough. Otherwise, the poor owl would probably be half drowned when she got back, and Harry was already beginning to regret sending her out in the first place.

He stood abruptly, and began to pace. The excitement of the encounter at Diagon Alley had yet to properly work its way out of his system, and the idea of sitting and waiting while things were happening was slightly maddening. He wanted to help; he wanted to be a part of the solution.

He glanced outside again as the thunderclouds flashed and rain came down in a torrent. The tiny room suddenly felt suffocating. While he was stuck here in suburbia, there were people out there fighting for their lives. He had to consciously restrain himself from throwing open his school trunk and digging out his Firebolt. Clenching his fists reflexively, he reminded himself that in suburbia, one did not fly around on broomsticks. On top of that, it was likely unwise to tempt fate with all the electricity in the air.

He burrowed his fingers in his unruly hair, and began to pace again, before recalling his purchases from this morning. Digging the little books out—and trying not to imagine Hermione's smug approval if she could see him—he glanced around for his wand. Unsure of where he'd tossed it, he simply muttered, "Accio." He was rewarded with a smart thwack in the back of the head as his wand came zipping up from the floor.

He caught it grumpily, tapping the two books so that they jumped back to normal size, and then froze. He'd just performed a summoning spell. He was underage. His eyes darted around, waiting for hell to break loose. All he heard in response was the heavy pattering of rain on his window.

No howlers. No owls bearing missives demanding his expulsion. He swallowed, hardly daring to hope that his magic had gone unnoticed. This wasn't the same as a bit—_a bit!_ he scoffed to himself—of wild magic. This was a Ministry regulated spell. Surely that would bring the hounds.

When he waited another full minute, and there was no punitive reaction, he began to relax. Should he push his luck and try another spell? He hefted his wand thoughtfully, teetering on the brink, before shaking his head and snorting at himself.

One might almost think he _liked_ getting in trouble.

Hoping for a distraction, he sprawled out on the bed with his new books, and was soon immersed in the surprisingly fascinating world of competitive spellsmithing. He only went downstairs once for a snack of celery with peanut butter (celery, carrots, and sugar-snap peas being the only things he could find in the fridge that weren't some form of condiment). The Dursleys apparently had gone out for the evening—Harry vaguely remembered Dudley talking about a new Batman movie had recently been released… Batman Forever? Batman Returns?—leaving him to his own devices in a rare show of trust. Or, more likely, simple negligence.

Either way, Harry was happy to be rid of them, and he stayed up reading into the wee hours of the morning, pausing only when a bedraggled but otherwise happy Hedwig stopped in just long enough for a snack—and some effusive praise from Harry for her quick delivery—before departing again with his letter to Hermione.

* * *

The next morning, Harry didn't roll out of bed until eleven-thirty. It was a Saturday, and the Dursleys had yet to make an appearance. Harry didn't know whether to be worried or overjoyed by this piece of luck. Had the Dursleys taken an impromptu vacation, and just forgot to tell him? He combed the house for clues, but he didn't find a note explaining their absence, nor any obvious clothes missing, and the matched luggage was still stowed in the attic. Even the cars were still parked in the garage, and though it was entirely possible that the Dursleys had taken a taxi to their destination, it was this more than anything that had Harry worried. Uncle Vernon hated taxi drivers as much as he hated letting other people drive—which was quite a lot.

Much as he wanted to deny it, Harry was concerned. Maybe he could go over to Mrs. Figg's to see if she knew anything (he had slept in rather late, after all, and might have missed them). Just as he reached for the door, someone knocked from the other side.

He jumped, before mentally berating himself._ Easy, Potter_. He really was wired to snap, and took a moment to compose himself before pulling the door open.

"Profess—?"

He nearly choked on his tongue. The man standing before him was dressed head to toe in a slick black suit with silver pinstripes. A black fedora in one hand, and an ebony cane in the other, accompanied the familiar long silver beard and hair, the half-moon spectacles, and the long crooked nose. It was Dumbledore all right, but he was wearing muggle clothes.

Dumbledore had always worn robes, as long as Harry had known him. Always. Harry tried again. "Professor?"

Dumbledore gave him an amused smile. His stature wasn't diminished by the trim suit exactly, but it did make him look a bit frail—like a cross between Mr. Crouch and Gandhi. "You look rather surprised to see me, Mr. Potter. You did receive my message?"

"I—" Harry began, blinking. "Yeah… I did… please come in." He stood aside, and couldn't help but stare as Dumbledore made an appreciative noise and stepped past him into the front hall.

They settled into the living room, and Harry couldn't help but comment. "Nice suit. Uh, sir."

Dumbledore looked rather pleased with himself as he straightened a sleeve. "Isn't it, though? Custom job. Had to have the stripes match my beard, you see."

Harry nodded in understanding, though in truth he didn't understand at all. Dumbledore had never bothered with Muggle clothing before. To Harry it had always seemed like a statement of pride. Dumbledore was the epitome of what a wizard should be, and wizards wore robes, not three-piece suits. It wasn't even garishly colored or patterned, but instead a sober and entirely classy scheme of black and silver. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Harry asked, "So what was it you wanted to discuss with me, Professor?"

"Ah, straight to business then, I see." Dumbledore favored him with a fond smile. Harry returned it hesitantly as the professor pulled out a folder from the jacket of his suit. Ah, that explained the lump Harry had noticed. "Do you have your wand with you, Mr. Potter?" he asked offhandedly.

"No, it's in my…" Harry waved a thumb in the general direction of his room. Then he jumped to his feet. "I'm sorry, Professor, I completely forgot—would you like some tea?"

Dumbledore looked up from perusing the files. "That would be splendid, if you don't mind."

Harry hurried for the kitchen, battling with his acute embarrassment, and a vague sense of unease. He wasn't sure what it was. Something just seemed a bit off, and it wasn't just the suit. He took the time preparing tea to comb through his murky impressions. It wasn't much, but… Dumbledore had called him 'Mr. Potter' instead of Harry. He hadn't inquired about dreams or Harry's scar yet, and usually those were the first topics of conversation. In fact, he hadn't really asked Harry how he was coping at all. Was this all part of treating Harry like a capable member of the Order? Had their relationship cooled to formal greetings and polite discourse? Harry felt a pang of loss at the idea. Maybe he was just imagining things.

He returned to the living room with a loaded tea tray, and set it down on the coffee table, within easy reach of them both.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said graciously, setting the papers out.

"Harry." Dumbledore looked up at him in question, and Harry shrugged. He wanted his professor to know that things were not so bad between them. He'd been angry at the end of school, true, but he didn't blame the old man anymore. Not really. He had himself for that. It wasn't quite an apology, but he tried to convey what he was feeling anyway. "You can still call me Harry, you know."

An unreadable expression passed over the old man's face, and he nodded. "Harry."

Harry relaxed, and gestured to the papers. "So what's all this?"

"Your godfather's will."

Harry felt as if someone had punched him in the gut.

"He left you quite a substantial amount after he died," Dumbledore went on, oblivious to Harry's reaction. "As your guardian in the magical world, it has been left to me to oversee this transaction. This first form—" he waved a parchment in the air and made sure he had Harry's attention, "—is a document meant simply to verify that you are who you say you are."

Harry swallowed, trying to quash the roiling mass of grief and shock. He had no idea he would have to deal with something like this so soon. He had never expected Sirius' death to come up so casually. It was like being blindsided by a train. "Sorry?"

"It's quite simple," Dumbledore explained, leaning forward. "We just need a small sample of blood, enough to fill this vial—"

Harry's hackles rose as the old man continued to speak. The sense of wrongness had returned with a vengeance. Blood magic? It sounded reasonable enough, but courtesy of Hermione, Harry had enough passing knowledge to know that you didn't give out your blood. Too many things—powerful, binding things—could be done with the possession of someone's blood. He took the opportunity to study the old man more closely as he went on pointing out boxes of text and explaining them.

What was it? Dumbledore looked up at him briefly before continuing, and Harry realized he looked tired. Or faded. But that still wasn't quite it.

"With me so far?" Dumbledore queried gently, breaking Harry out of his reverie.

"Yes, sir."

The Headmaster gave him one of those smiles, before pulling out another sheet. Harry stiffened. That was it! It was in his eyes! Something was different about them. By all rights, those bright blue eyes should have been twinkling. Harry had been on the receiving end of that piercing gaze often enough to know. This was like looking at a cup of water where there used to be a jar of lightning. There was no twinkle. This wasn't Albus Dumbledore.

He might have laughed at condemning someone for lacking a twinkle if the matter weren't so deadly serious. But now he was sure. There was a man in his house who looked, spoke, and acted remarkably like the man Harry had once trusted above almost all others. But he was an imposter. It was like watching someone else dance around in the Headmaster's skin. And this man wanted… well, Harry wasn't entirely sure what his aims were, but they began with his blood, and it couldn't go anywhere good from there.

"Professor," Harry said softly, every sense preternaturally focused on the old man. He recalled the almanac sitting innocently on his desk upstairs. "What year did you come up with that Hydro Vortex spell? You know, the one you used at the Ministry, against Voldemort?"

Dumbledore paused, looking up, and studying him intently for the first time. "Sometime in the fifties, why?"

The decade was wrong, and Dumbledore _hadn't_ used that spell in the Ministry battle. Harry felt his mind clearing, as his muscles tensed. One more try. "What about that Slingshot charm?"

Dumbledore gave an easy laugh. "Caught your eye, that one? That was a much more recent addition."

_Accio_, Harry thought with all his might, hand slightly open at his side. A flicker of consternation jumped into the imposter's eyes just as Harry felt the reassuring weight of his wand slap into his open palm.

"I should think so," Harry replied, standing slowly. "Seeing how I thought of it just this morning."

They both moved at once.

"_Expelliarmus_!" Harry cast, before pitching himself to the side to avoid a simultaneous "_Reducto_!"

A picture frame and the better part of the wall behind the couch rained down. Harry hooked a foot under the glass coffee table and upended it, growling, "_Engorgio_," causing the table to stretch until it spanned the space from floor to ceiling. With a vicious flick, Harry banished it across the room, intending to smash the imposter.

The man had managed to hang on to his wand, and made a slashing motion, which was accompanied by a blazing orange scythe that neatly lopped the giant table in two.

Harry dashed out of the way of the blazing crescent, and it bit into the entryway behind him, gouging out a smoking black scar.

"_Reducto,_" Harry shot at the table halves, shattering the glass. "_Wingardium—_" He was too slow, and the imposter managed to hiss another spell, aimed at the floor, before Harry could finish his charm. "—_Leviosa_!" The multitude of shards obediently rose in the air at the same time the wood floor beneath Harry's feet simply melted.

He swept his wand arm out, sending the shards pelting toward the old man, and then immediately set about freeing his sinking feet from the boiling muck.

The man, in a shocking display of acrobatics, chucked a chair into the air as a shield and twisted away, but some of the glass shards still found their mark, slicing through the pinstripe jacket.

"_Duro_!" Harry cast at the melting wood, and immediately regretted it. The surface hardened quickly, just as he'd intended, but locked him in up to his knees. He swore, and twisted his upper body away from an incoming curse that looked like nothing so much as an indigo bolt of lightning. He could hear it crackling away into the kitchen as he struggled with his feet.

"_Protego_!" he gasped, and the next curse fairly sizzled against his shield, dissipating outwards like water droplets across hot oil. Desperate, he pointed his wand at himself and murmured, "_Reducio_!" At first he was afraid that nothing had happened, but then the pressure against his shins loosened.

The imposter actually paused in blatant surprise as Harry slowly shrank behind his blazing shield. Then the man seemed to realize what Harry was doing because he shouted, "_Finite Incantatem!_" just as Harry pulled himself free.

Harry's shield puttered out and the spell hit. He shot up to his normal height, now free of his confinement. _Why thank you_, he thought flippantly, and took the opportunity to fire off several dazzlingly bright stunners. While the air was full of light, he rolled sideways toward the door, hoping to catch the imposter off guard. "_Petrificus_—"

He was too slow, and the old man shot out a pair of bludgeoning curses. Harry dodged the first, a massive distortion in the air, but the second clipped him in the arm. He bit down on a shout as his arm was whipped back, dislocating his shoulder.

He held it close and cast a sticking charm to hold it in place against his chest, grateful that it hadn't been his wand arm. The pain was making it hard to think, and anger boiled up unchecked. Like an explosion in his mind, something snapped.

Who did this man think he was? Traipsing into _his_ home, pretending to be Albus Dumbledore of all people, invoking _Sirius'_ name, and blowing the place to kingdom come—Harry had had enough.

"_Reducto!_" he snarled, and the fireplace exploded in a fountain of brick and ash."_Reducto_!" he shouted again, this time blowing out the windowpanes. The imposter threw up physical barriers left and right as more debris rained down. "_Reducto! Reducto!"_ Soon the living room was drowned in roiling dust and destruction. _"Accio _ceiling," Harry ground out, and gave a physical tug when his magic latched on to something. With satisfying alacrity, the entire living room shuddered, and the ceiling—fixtures and all—wrenched loose. A terrific roar filled the air, and the whole assembly came down with a deafening crash.

Harry stood, panting, while the dust cleared, and realized that Dudley's bedroom had also been relocated to the ground floor. The four-post bed slipped just a bit in the ensuing silence, settling against the remains of the fireplace.

As the adrenaline drained out of him, Harry began to shake, and the pain in his arm became more insistent. Impatiently, he cast a numbing charm on his shoulder. He would sort himself out later. He didn't want to think about what kind of trouble he'd be in when people—anyone, really—found out about this, but at the moment he had a more pressing concern.

Steeling himself, he cast a hovering charm on the solid slab of architecture. It crumbled slightly as he moved it, and little bits of furniture and drywall tumbled off. His brow broke out in beads of perspiration, but he managed to levitate the whole thing toward himself, looking for any sign of the other wizard.

There he was, near the back wall. Knocked out cold, at best. Harry felt a chill when he considered the worst.

When the wreckage was far enough away from the dusty figure, Harry let it down with a sigh and a loud thud. He wondered detachedly what the neighbors were thinking at this moment, while he picked his way over to the far side of what used to be the living room. A glance upward proved surreal as Dudley's bedroom door swung out into empty space from the upstairs hallway.

_You lost it a bit there, Potter. _ "_Mobilicorpus,_" he muttered, trying not to contemplate how many ways he had screwed himself. The old man's body was limp, but not in an 'obviously dead' kind of way. He swallowed his dread and moved the man into the kitchen.

The appliances had all gone haywire, and there were black lines zigzagging across the floor and cabinets—no doubt from that pleasant looking blue lightning earlier.

He set the old man down gently on the linoleum, grimacing at Dumbledore's familiar visage, now bloodied at the mouth and covered in soot and dust. There was a trickle of blood coming from his silver crown of hair, and Harry forcefully reminded himself that this was _not_ Albus Dumbledore.

At least, he dearly hoped that was the case.

He felt for a pulse, brushing the long beard out of the way. It was unnerving. Harry had never been comfortable with personal contact, and the fact that this was basically Dumbledore—all-powerful, untouchable—lying on his kitchen floor made it even stranger. Harry pressed his fingers into the wrinkled throat. There was a pulse! He could have shouted for joy.

Harry sat back on his heels, unsure of how to proceed. He didn't know any medical spells, but it looked like the man would live. To be honest, he had expected Ministry owls at the first sign of trouble. For that matter, he had expected one last night, for the summoning charm, as well. Why had none appeared? He certainly could have used backup when this whole thing started to get out of hand. Who was this bastard, anyhow?

It could only be Polyjuice potion. There was no way it was the real Dumbledore—no way that the Headmaster might have been victim to the Imperius curse. Transfigurations were out as well—they could only go so far, and whoever this was, he seemed to have memorized the Headmaster's mannerisms. Harry would just have to out-wait the potion. Mind made up, he cast a body-bind on the imposter, and an _Incarcerous _charm for good measure.

Standing, he scrubbed his good hand through his hair and studied the tied-up and petrified figure with equal parts confusion and weariness. How had this happened? Shaking his head, he turned and began firing off _Reparo_ charms at everything he could see. The least he could do while he waited was try to fix the damage.

* * *

Two hours later, Harry had made some progress—he'd managed to piece together most of the furniture and knickknacks from Dudley's room, but the ceiling remained firmly on the floor. He doubted he had the strength necessary to put the house back together. The result was a bizarre scene in which the room had obviously caved in, but the furniture all stood out of the way as if the ceiling had waited for the room to clear. It was inexcusably unnatural. Harry shook his head in frustration. He should have simply left it the way it was, and stuck with fixing up spell damage.

Blowing out an exasperated sigh, he turned to the kitchen to put the burn marks to rights, but the sight of his prisoner stopped him cold.

Albus Dumbledore had remained, quite stubbornly, Albus Dumbledore. Harry stared at the old man, uncomprehending. It had been at _least_ two hours since the imposter—a word that sounded shakier all the time—had ingested any potion. "Bloody Hell!" Harry exploded.

At that moment, an owl banked in through the window, and for a split second Harry imagined that the Ministry had been waiting for just the right moment to spring on him. But it was only Hedwig, and he slumped in relief as she alighted on his shoulder, offering him the note attached to her downy leg.

Shaking slightly, Harry shot a glance at the figure of the old man bound up on his kitchen floor. A quick scan told him the letter was from Hermione, but at the moment, that little problem had taken the back burner to the present situation. Hedwig hooted indignantly as he tossed it to the counter and lunged for a pad of paper. Despite his jerky movements, she managed to keep a grip on him, fluttering her wings for balance and cuffing him in the head.

He didn't even bother to berate her—he probably deserved it—and hastily scrawled out a note to the first Order member who came to mind. He needed help, and fast.

_Tonks,_

_I've got a problem that needs some magical assistance. It's nothing terribly important, but time sensitive. If you have a minute, could you pop out here and give me a hand? Thanks,_

_ Harry_

_P.S. Could you also make sure to say hello to Professor Dumbledore for me?_

Harry rolled the note up as quickly as he could and tied it to Hedwig's leg while he carried her to the patio door. "Quick as you can, girl!" he told her urgently, and the snowy owl took off like a rocket.

He waited in the kitchen as the minutes crawled by, tapping his foot impatiently and watching his conked out charge. He had half a mind to _rennervate _the bastard and get some answers out of him, but with his Polyjuice Potion theory losing its legs, Harry became more and more fearful that he'd made a terrible mistake.

But no, he shook his head slightly. Dumbledore—the _real_ Dumbledore—would never lose so easily to a lightweight like Harry. Although, it was possible that the old man had been holding back for some reason. But if that were the case, he wouldn't have used the types spells that he did—none of them had been gentle by any stretch of the word.

On top of his doubts about the Polyjuice potion, Harry was beginning to wonder about the validity of that last verbal exam he'd given the man before taking action. Maybe, for the first spell Harry had asked about, Dumbledore had simply forgotten the details. It probably was difficult to remember exactly which spells he'd used in every duel. Harry himself couldn't—well, no; Harry could easily remember which spells he'd used in his fights. However, Harry wasn't anywhere near as old or experienced as Dumbledore.

But the second question—Harry had asked him about the Slingshot charm, which was just an idea that Harry had been thinking about. He hadn't come across anything quite like it, and so was reasonably sure that it was a fresh concept. But it was also true that Harry hadn't read about every spell invented _ever._ It was possible that Dumbledore _had _already come up with something like it.

Harry shook his head again, digging the heel of his palm into his eyes. It made no sense! A guffaw from the floor drew his attention to the Dumbledore look-alike.

The old man's eyes were glittering, but it was the kind of expression that would never belong on the Headmaster's face. Those eyes burned with a kind of malevolence that Dumbledore wouldn't turn on even his greatest enemy.

Harry found his anxiety draining away under the weight of that evil gaze. He leaned closer to the old man and said, "You're just proving me right, you know."

The man blinked, and Harry leaned back, watching him closely for any change in appearance. They stared at each other that way for several moments.

A series of crackling pops at the very limit of his hearing roused him to attention. It had sounded like someone Apparating—several someones. He frowned, moving toward the dining room windows and wondering if Tonks had brought along some help. Something didn't feel right. He was learning to trust his gut.

Turning back toward the kitchen, he saw that the old man's expression had morphed into something like glee. Harry's blood chilled. _I guess that means the cavalry is here._

He didn't have time to wait for Tonks anymore. He knew his limits, and he'd reached them a long time ago.

He froze as his thoughts splintered in every direction. What could he do? What did he have time for? He dashed for the notepad a second time, and scrawled out a message as quickly as he could.

Hoping it was legible, Harry tossed the note to the counter before rather aggressively levitating the old man and dashing out of the kitchen. The Dursleys didn't have a basement, and the attic was so full of Dudley's old toys that they never even bothered trying to put things up there anymore. There was only one other place to hide the man.

The imposter's eyes widened as Harry threw open the little door to the cupboard under the stairs . Harry's nerves were about ready to abandon him—the man's backup had to be nearly upon them—and he flipped the mattress of his old cot out of the way with more force than was necessary. He tossed the old man into the drooping springs, making sure he was face down so he could breath through the coils, and tossed the mattress back on top before backing out and bolting the door.

Hopefully Tonks would understand the hints he had left.

He could hear voices approaching the front walk. They must have been instructed to step in after a certain time. Harry's heart was racing. He had to get out _now_ but there was no way to mail the letter, with Hedwig already en route, and he couldn't let these new arrivals see it. Inspiration struck, and he dashed to the kitchen. Pulling out his wand, he transfigured the paper into a little refrigerator magnet that looked like a black dog. If she didn't figure that out, then he'd done his best, hang it all. Just before he turned to leave, he added a charm that made the dog's eyes light up green if someone passed by, and then carefully placed the magnet just at the foot of the refrigerator. Leaving it out in the middle of the counter was too obvious.

The latch on the front door clicked, and voices sounded in the hall.

With a silent prayer for things to work out, Harry did what no witch or wizard would have ever expected: he slipped out the patio door and took off running.


	3. When All Else Fails

CHAPTER 3

Nymphadora Tonks was having a long day at the office. It was the end of the week, and while half of the Auror office staff were home for the weekend, she was hunched in her cluttered cubicle—the one that she barely ever used except to drop off evidence or file reports or drink a shot of rum at the end of the day—and furiously scratching away with a quill.

For the very reason that she and her peers rarely did office work, their warren of cubicles was situated in a rather dated wing of the ministry. The high, wooden rafters overhead were pinned and stapled with all sorts of trophies from old cases—from the Ministry break-in just a few weeks ago, to the famous Amsterdam Dragon-fighting rings in the sixties. The room—which they called the Arena—was large, almost cathedral-like, but with the dim, smoky atmosphere of an old pub more than a place of business.

Tonks had been thrilled with the place when she first joined the ranks. This was a side of the Aurors that no one else got to see—the pool table and the dart boards in the back, the loft over the front entrance where the coffee and break-area was, the row of stone-block fireplaces in the back for discreet comings and goings, and the golden shafts of sunlight coming in near the roof, where the owls came in. There were more offices on the balcony-like ring above the ground floor, and little staircases and support beams everywhere. Big doors on the far side of the Arena led to training areas and armories and a small hospital. The Ministry had its own dedicated hospital wing of course, but this one specialized in the sorts of injuries that only Aurors seemed to be able to acquire. Everything was built out of darkly aged wood, like an old lodge, and Tonks loved the feeling of history and pride that seemed to permeate every corner.

But just now the echoing ceiling reminded her too much of gym class, and the old smell of cigar smoke was giving her a headache. Merlin, how she hated expense reports!

Tonks was many things—talented, ferocious, courageous, and mighty fine to look at, if she did say so herself—but she was not organized. A rough pile of receipts and lists was crowding the surface of her old desk, and she had been staring at them, unmoving, for several minutes.

She eyed her wand, sitting innocently a few inches away, and considered setting fire to the whole thing.

Before she could solidify the bloody-minded idea, a distant screech caused her and several of her peers to look up. A brilliant white owl darted through the high windows, and banked over the field of cubicles.

Tonks straightened, thinking the bird looked familiar. That was Harry's owl! Standing quickly, and jostling her desk as she did so, she called, "Wotcher, Hedwig!"

The snowy owl swooped straight for her, skidding to a landing in the midst of Tonks' pile of receipts. Tonks might have scolded the big bird if Hedwig hadn't seemed so agitated.

"What is it, girl?" she asked, and the owl offered a leg, to which a rolled up note was attached.

She hastily took it and unfurled it, looking pleased before her brow furrowed slightly. "What's going on, bird?" she asked the owl without looking up. "He says it's no big deal, but you don't seem to agree… and this is Harry, after all."

She pocketed the note and grabbed her jacket. Hedwig made to take off, but Tonks said, "Come on, girl, you'll get there faster with me." After a moment of consideration, the owl flapped up onto her shoulder, biting her gently on the ear as if to say, 'I trust you, now…'

Tonks was only too happy to put her expense reports off again, and anyway, the whole idea of Harry sending _her_ a note asking for _help_… well, everything about it screamed 'unusual.' And that last bit about saying hello to Dumbledore… as she breezed through the archway out of the arena and into the more conservative front offices, and on into the main halls of the Ministry, she decided she would do that first. Harry wouldn't have mentioned it if it weren't important, she reasoned.

She knew Dumbledore was somewhere about today—he'd had an appointment with the Wizengamot earlier, and from Ministry gossip, she had gathered he would be having an appointment with Fudge. The public outcry against the Minister, while gratifying, had also been rather shocking after the events of the previous few weeks. Voldemort returning had been like whacking the beehive, and suddenly everyone wanted a piece of everyone else. The Auror's office had been run ragged, not only with the frenzy of reports about Death Eater activity, but now there were copycats and vigilantes and small-scale riots and accidents… Needless to say, the Ministry was in an advanced state of disarray.

Tonks rubbed the nape of her neck in anxiety, making her short, violently pink hair stand up. No sense in whinging—she couldn't do everything. They just had to take things one case at a time.

She arrived at the Minister's offices and strode by the harried looking receptionist without slowing down. Tonks frowned, both pleased and disturbed by the lack of resistance. With a cursory knock—she didn't much care about the Minister's opinion, after all—she pushed open the door.

Fudge looked up in surprise, obviously in mid-sentence, and a familiar tall, heavily robed old man turned in his seat to see what the disturbance was. Albus Dumbledore took her in with an easy smile and a spark in his brilliant blue eyes. "Ms. Tonks."

"Professor," she returned with an answering grin and a slight nod.

Dumbledore's eyes shifted, and he blinked. "Is that Harry's owl?"

"It is," Tonks replied, pulling out the little note and waving it. "He wanted me to tell you hello, from him." Dumbledore leaned forward to take it when she offered, and he read it with a growing frown.

"Albus, if you don't mind—" Fudge began in a rather affronted tone.

Dumbledore stood, effectively cutting the Minister off. "My apologies, Cornelius," he said benignly. "I'm afraid we'll have to conclude this business another time. Something rather important has come up, and it requires my immediate attention."

With that, the tall old wizard took Tonks by the elbow and steered them both out of the room. The office door shut behind them, silencing any protest from Fudge, and they were striding down the corridor. Hedwig was having trouble keeping a grip on Tonks' shoulder, they were walking so fast. "Don't you think that was a bit overboard, Professor?" Tonks asked, grinning broadly. Fudge was such a ponce.

"Not in the least," Dumbledore said, favoring her with a glance. "Harry has a talent for understatement, and I can't recall the last time he actually asked someone for assistance. I am concerned."

Apparently Dumbledore also had a talent for understatement. From what Tonks could see, 'concerned' didn't cover half of it. They practically flew to the nearest fireplace, and Dumbledore wasted no time to cast a handful of Floo powder in before saying, "Arabella Figg's!"

They stepped into the whirling green flames.

Tonks stumbled out into a heavily laced and upholstered sitting room that smelled of cats and jasmine. Hedwig, who apparently liked Floo even less, squawked and took flight. Tonks had barely taken two steps before Dumbledore took her arm and they disapparated.

It had been a long time since she had been so utterly disoriented. She'd never floo'ed and then apparated so quickly (how did Dumbledore get his bearings so fast?), and she was reeling when they appeared in front of Number 4, Privet Drive. "Bloody Hell," she muttered, giving the wizened old man a dirty look.

Dumbledore wasn't listening. His eyes had gone hard, and the air around him fairly sizzled as he stared at the house. Tonks finally took in her surroundings as the old man strode forward with purpose. Her jaw dropped. The front windows had been busted out, and glass and pieces of wood littered the lawn. The right side of the house sagged a bit oddly, and from what she could see of the inside, it had been ripped apart.

After a moment of gawking, she hurried after Dumbledore, who hadn't even needed to open the front door, as it had already been blown off its hinges and now rested in a rather large hydrangea bush.

"What the hell happened here?" Tonks breathed, looking around as they stepped inside. It looked like a whirlwind had come through—every door had been opened, every bit of furniture smashed, odd bits of things and papers littered the floors. Perhaps most shockingly, what appeared to be an entire bedroom had dropped down onto the living room, ceiling and all.

Evidence of spell damage showed up here and there, and Tonks dug out a pair of Tracers. They appeared at first glance to be a simple pair of antique flight goggles, except for the tiny dials on the sides, and the water trapped between the lenses. It wasn't any normal water, however—it was water taken from very special volcanic geysers, and when one cast the proper incantation and looked through them, it was possible to see the faint traces left over from spell-work.

She slipped them on and activated them with a tap of her wand, and the vision made her sputter in surprise. "There was a major battle here!" The aftereffects of spells glowed in bright, furious blooms, thin tracery, wide swaths—the floor appeared to have suffered some unusual effects—and violent slashes. It was as if someone had taken neon glow-paint and proceeded to trash the place. Overlaid on the physical destruction, it was a jarring effect.

Dumbledore simply nodded distractedly, and Tonks wondered if he could see all of this without the Tracers. She gazed up at the second story through the massive hole, and muttered, "This is what he calls a little problem?"

She followed Dumbledore up the stairs—he obviously intended to check Harry's room first, though she thought they both knew there was no one in the house. All the doors on the second story had been blown in, as if whoever had combed through the house—it certainly looked like they had been searching—hadn't had the presence of mind to operate a doorknob. Dumbledore came back from his search, his usually benign countenance stony. "We need to find Harry," he told her, and they went back downstairs.

"We need to find out what happened here," she replied, ripping off the Tracers. They weren't doing her any good in this place. Sudden frustration gripped her. "How could this happen! This house is warded up under more layers than bloody Shangri-la; it's hardly even on the map, and there are more people watching this place around the clock—!" She forced herself to stop, putting her hands behind her head and containing her anger.

"Someone has compromised the security," Dumbledore agreed, moving toward the kitchen. "Someone very high up. It's obvious Harry didn't go without a fight. He should have been detected for underaged wizardry at the very least."

"Bloody hell," Tonks muttered again, pacing. Something flashing caught her eye. Ah, just a magnet. She looked away, and then looked back again. That sure was a distinctive magnet. If she really thought about it, it looked kind of like… Snuffles.

She gasped, and reached for it, before snatching her hand away at the last second. _Rookie mistake_, she chastised herself. Couldn't hurt to be too careful if you wanted to keep all of your limbs. Quickly, she ran a set of detection spells, looking for traps or curses. It was clean; a simple transfiguration. While Dumbledore looked on, she tapped it with her wand to release it, and it 'popped' into a note. It had apparently been written with great haste, because she could barely read it. Aloud, she recited:

"_Surname,_

_Was entertaining a really familiar looking houseguest. He was acting odd; the whole time he's been here, he hasn't had anything to drink, and it's been more than two hours. Unfortunately, his friends showed up, and I had to split. He might've gone with them. We didn't get much chance to talk (he seemed to have some remodeling in mind) but it got me thinking about where I used to sleep when I was a kid. Decided to clean out some of the spiders today, and I think they missed me. Hopefully they have enough company now._

_ The Blah who Blah"_

She looked up at Dumbledore, blinking. "Where did he learn to talk like that?"

Dumbledore's gaze went distant as he thought. "It would seem he has a knack for subterfuge." His blue eyes sharpened as he looked at her. "There's someone else here."

Tonks nodded. "Or at least there _was_. Sounds like Harry subdued him." She smiled fondly. "That's our boy."

They both lapsed into a tense silence as they considered the letter. Spiders… Where he used to sleep… They'd already checked his room, so that was out. Tonks didn't know Harry well enough to decrypt his message, but Dumbledore seemed to catch on immediately.

He was already moving toward a little door under the staircase, and she followed a step behind, an unpleasant notion curling in her gut.

The Headmaster released the catch, and they each leaned against the wall to either side, wands ready, as the little door quietly swung open on its own. They waited a few seconds, but there was no movement inside. Tonks gave the old man a weary grimace, and he twisted to poke his head in the door. After another moment he slumped, and turned back. "It seems our quarry has already departed."

Tonks straightened. "He's dead?"

Dumbledore cocked one brow in a decidedly McGonagall-esque expression. "Gone."

"Damn." Tonks leaned in. Her pink eyebrows rose as she digested the sight of the dusty shelves, bits of cleaning supplies, and a raggedy mattress tucked away in the dim space beneath the stairs. _Surely not_, she thought, feeling a sick wave of emotion. She might have turned away then if it weren't for instincts born from years of breaking down crime scenes. There was something about that cot. The mattress sat perfectly straight, while the wire frame beneath it sagged.

"Professor," she murmured, calling the old man back before he could move off. She stepped into the little cupboard, and with a building anticipation, lifted the mattress. She yelped and jumped backward, bumping into Dumbledore who had peered in behind her, which caused her to shout again, flail sideways, and knock down several shelves of cleaning agents and little toy soldiers. "You!" she shouted, pointing at him, and then pointing at the shape under the mattress. "That… you! He—what—"

"Ms. Tonks, please calm yourself!" Dumbledore soothed, putting up his hands. "What is it?"

Tonks knocked down several brooms and another shelf trying to extricate herself from the mess while simultaneously reigning in her moment of wild confusion. She took a deep breath and said, "Professor, I… I don't think you're going to like this." Resignedly, she levitated the huddled shape up and out of the cupboard, and watched as Dumbledore's eyes widened.

"Oh dear," he murmured when Tonks lowered the figure to the floor. It was uncanny, seeing two of the same person in one place. The Dumbledore on the floor looked slightly diminished with his odd suit and battered appearance, which made the Dumbledore standing over him all the more threatening. "Polyjuice…" he began, but trailed off with a faint shake of his head.

"Harry's note said he's been here for more than two hours, with no drinks," Tonks finished for him. That ruled out the potion fairly decisively. She found herself impressed with the kid all over again. How had he even known about the potion?

Dumbledore looked more angry and disturbed by the moment. He crouched over the mirror image of himself, staring into the identical blue eyes, and asked softly, "What is this?" The threat laced in his words was unmistakable, and Tonks felt the hairs raise up on the back of her neck.

"At least we can be glad Harry didn't think he was really you, Professor."

The Headmaster closed his eyes for a second, as if terribly pained. Then they snapped open and he waved a hand over the imposter, who immediately slackened, though the ropes remained. "What have you done with Harry?"

The other Dumbledore gave a rasping laugh. "I'm the one tied up here, old man. You might want to ask what my _friends_ did with him."

Tonks clenched her jaw, and only Dumbledore's raised palm kept her from lunging at the bound man. "What did you _plan_ to do with him?"

The imposter laughed a little harder. "Oh _please_ try and make me tell you."

"Who are you?"

The imposter's wizened face split into a wide grin. "What a silly question. I'm _you, _aren't I?"

Dumbledore remained icily calm. "Who are you working for?"

"Your mum," the imposter barked with a slightly hysterical cackle.

The Headmaster stiffened. Tonks noticed something, then. There was a bulge in the imposter's pinstriped jacket, barely visible beneath the tight coils of rope. It jogged her memory, calling to mind a case they'd taken when she first started as an Auror. "Professor," she interrupted. He turned that piercing gaze on her, and she faltered, before pointing. "Check inside the front of his jacket there."

The imposter lost his expression of smug amusement as Dumbledore yanked the ropes down with a surprisingly swift tug, and pulled aside the front of the jacket. A rectangular shape rested beneath the pressed white shirt, and Dumbledore pulled it out sharply, eliciting a hiss from the imposter.

It was a small, rounded metal flask, attached to a complicated looking assembly of knobs and tubes. As he pulled it out the rest of the way, it became apparent that the needle on the other end of the tube had been stuck into the man's flesh. Dumbledore looked up at her, and Tonks felt a flash of pride that she knew something that the legendary wizard did not.

"Polyjuice drip," she simply, and it was all the explanation required.

And then Dumbledore did something he had probably never done before. He wound back and socked his mirror image in the jaw with a resounding crack.

Tonks gaped. The imposter was out like a light, and Dumbledore stood, still glaring down at the prone figure. "_Petrificus Totallis,_" he muttered, and then glanced at Tonks. "I would appreciate it very much if you did not mention that to anyone."

She just nodded, stunned.

Eyes flashing, he said, "We need to find Harry."

* * *

Harry pounded down the sidewalk, lungs screaming. He had long ago crossed the threshold where he should have collapsed into a puddle of panting, drooling goo. But he couldn't stop.

He had no idea how the quad of wizards had caught up with him, or how they continued to keep up. His fatigue-hazed brain surmised they were casting energizing charms on each other in between firing curses at him.

_Bloody unfair._

Pretty soon this concrete path would give way to dirt and mud, and he'd been able to duck behind trees, but at the moment all he could do was try to dodge incoming spells and toss up a pathetic shield every once in a while.

But it was almost more than he could manage just to keep his legs pumping. Meanwhile his shields were looking more and more insubstantial, and the hexes were coming in closer and closer.

If he'd been able to watch himself speed by followed by a gaggle of dark wizards, he might have laughed at the absurdity of it. As it was, he didn't have the compulsion or the lung-capacity to laugh. Why he'd thought wizards were incapable of chasing him if he ran on foot was beyond him now. _Delusions of grandeur, _he told himself. It had seemed like a stroke of genius at the time.

To make matters worse, every time he cast a spell, a bloody owl showed up and dropped a letter on his head. If anyone wanted to track him, they could just follow the trail of envelopes he'd been leaving since Whipple Drive.

"_Impedimenta!_" he cast over his shoulder, and heard one gratifying shout but didn't bother to look back. "_Stupify!_" he cast again. Two more owls appeared, pelting him with missives.

There were the trees up ahead! If he could just make it—

A hail of curses streaked past him, but one sliced through the meat of his already dislocated shoulder. It was like being run through with a buzz-saw, and the shock of it almost sent him sprawling. White-hot pain shivered through him, and blood ran from the wound in such quantities that droplets were flying in his face.

_God damn_—_bloody—of all the!—_his train of thought rapidly dissolved into a long stream of cursing. What good was _that_ spell? What did they hope to achieve?

He flashed past the first tree, gasping, "_Reducto!_" as he went by. The trunk erupted in a shower of splinters, and the tree toppled with a cracking groan. More shouts went up behind him, but he dared not hope that he'd escaped.

There was a wide puddle across the path just ahead, from yesterday's storm, but slowing down wasn't an option. He gave everything he had into his burning limbs—just a little bit farther! He was beyond spent, and blackness was creeping at the edges of his vision, but he poured more on until it felt like he was offering up bits of his soul to keep going.

His foot splashed down—but it never hit the bottom. With an abortive shout, he crashed into a puddle that should have only been inches deep. In a spectacular fountain of spray, the water closed over him, and he disappeared.

* * *

"What do you mean, _I_ requested a Class A concealment charm to be placed over Number 4?" Albus Dumbledore demanded, well and truly losing his patience.

The cringing man at the service desk for the Magical Detection Office spluttered, "You walked in yesterday and—and—"

"And what?" Dumbledore asked, voice rising into what was nearing a shout. "Do I have the governmental authority to make a decision like that?"

"I—I don't—you're Albus Dumbledore, I thought—"

"It doesn't matter _who_ it is, you fool, you check for clearance! And if that person doesn't have clearance, you don't do _anything_!"

The young man was practically fainting in the face of the tall wizard's rumbling, crackling anger, but Tonks supposed that Dumbledore had good reason to be angry. Apparently the imposter—who was, at this moment, in solitary confinement and had yet to revert to his real form—had waltzed into the building yesterday and been able to do all sorts of things, simply by virtue of the fact that he looked and acted like Albus Dumbledore.

The Ministry was in a frenzy over the incident, and coupled with the disappearance of Harry Potter, not to mention the return of You-Know-Who the month before, it was like kicking over an ant hill.

Apparently the moment Harry had moved beyond the physical limits of the charm, owls had begun flocking away from the Underage Wizardry Detection sub-offices. Tonks was trailing the eye of the storm, as it were, but kept her distance; she didn't fancy being melted or electrocuted or tossed into a wall. She'd never actually seen the old wizard loose his temper—had never even heard of it, to be frank—but it seemed like today might just be the day.

"Can you track him?" Dumbledore was now demanding, leaning over the harried witches and wizards responsible for the complex detection devices. Members of the Order, Ministry office heads, and messengers between departments were all milling around; even the Minister was there, though he was mostly hovering off to the side where he was out of the way.

"I—yes," the unfortunate witch responded, watching the readings of a large, dark globe, which flashed periodically with pinpricks of light. Another owl took off, envelope in its claws, and the woman cried, "Agh, why does he keep using spells?"

"Because he's being pursued, you stupid bint!" Tonks shouted, unable to contain herself. Christ, these people were idiots.

"Where is he now?" Dumbledore asked urgently.

Someone came by and handed the witch a sheaf of papers, which she consulted before manipulating the device. "He's just—bloody hell, someone stop sending the owls!—he's just outside—good lord!" she exclaimed, cutting off mid sentence.

"What is it?" A dozen people crowded around.

The witch sat back, lifting a hand. "He… He's gone!"

They all crowded closer, watching the now still globe for any signs of activity. Another man came by with a report from the Apparation tracking office, showing a negative. Reports trickled in from all quarters—no Floo, no portkey. Not even a bloody wormhole. There was no magical signature anywhere for Harry Potter. He had well and truly vanished.


	4. Operation Birdbath or The Underworld

CHAPTER 4

Harry stirred, and immediately hissed at the blossom of pain in his mangled shoulder. The lack of light behind his eyelids told him it was the dead of the night, and unusually warm. Balmy even. He cracked open his eyes slowly, wondering how he could have been out for so long.

He went stiff, realizing the last thing he remembered was landing unceremoniously in a puddle. Had he been captured then? Where the hell was he?

A brush of wind filled his nose with the scent of summer rain and deep forest, of ozone and something indefinable—like ash or sulfur. Like fireworks.

He opened his eyes the rest of the way, and immediately flinched in astonishment. The hand that had rested near his face—_my hand_, he thought with disbelief—was, instead of a thing of flesh and blood, a bright tangle of glowing orange-white. Like one of those diagrams of human veins, except rather than blood, he was filled with molten light.

He pushed back from the ground to sit up, alarms jangling in his brain.

It was not just his hands—his entire body was like some mad artist's rendering of a human done in fine neon tubing.

_Ho-oly shit. _He began to shake in earnest, and tried to calm himself down. Unfortunately, this tactic only ever worked because usually he could come up with any number of reasonable explanations for his predicament, and this time he simply could think of none.

What was one supposed to do with this sort of problem? Did wizards have a standard procedure when faced with the loss of one's skin?

Was this a spell? An illusion, or some bizarre transfiguration? Had they turned him in to some kind of freakish human glow-worm? He was not even substance; where there were no glowing lines, there was nothing. He was a framework of lights. His body's core, where he thought his heart usually rested, was almost blindingly bright, and he noticed he was actually casting light out into the darkness around him.

"I am a night light," he moaned, and his voice echoed strangely. He supposed not having a voice box, or a throat, or flesh, might cause that.

He moved to rake his fingers through his hair, only to have his hands phase through. "Waagh!" he cried. It felt like passing his fingers through thin streams of air, and it sent a thrill of horror down his spine.

It took a moment for him to recover from the shock and revulsion of sticking his own hands in to where his brain should have been, but he finally looked up to take in his surroundings.

It was like looking across a landscape of stars—there were odd glowing spots of different hues, and faintly glowing outlines of things. Some were brighter than others, some seemed to move, some were clustered close to each other, and in some stretches there were no lights at all. The landscape itself was very dark—deep indigo peaks and valleys cloaked with the shadowy shapes of forest, lumps like towers of rock, and sheer cliffs and massive mountains in the far distance, all beneath a sky that was blacker than any true night. When he looked up at it, it was as if he were actually looking down, into a murky abyss that no light could ever reach.

Flat sheets of glowing pale blue seemed to pool in the distance here and there, and he happened to be sitting very near one.

Creeping closer over the dark blue-black shapes of thick vegetation, Harry leaned over the glowing surface, and poked it with one insubstantial finger. Ripples formed, and he realized it was water. Or, he reflected upon further consideration, something very similar. It was a little more viscous than water, and when he sliced his hand through it, it seemed to let even more light out.

Utterly baffled, Harry looked around again. A little stick of crimson light half hidden in the brush captured his attention, and he picked it up. It felt very familiar, and with a start, he recognized it as his wand.

Blinking, he hesitantly theorized that the glowing shapes in this foreign landscape must be items—or creatures—of magic. The pool he sat next to was very similar in size to the rain puddle he had fallen into. That odd shape in the darkness a few meters off looked a lot like a fallen tree.

A fluttering anxiety filled his stomach. Had he trapped himself in some crazy vision where everything was backward and strange? Where matter was replaced by shadows and light? Was he dead? Was this what ghosts saw of the real world? His heart began to beat faster as he flashed through a hundred theories.

He noticed faint splashes of colors and shapes on the ground close to, and beyond, the fallen tree, and his gut recognized them as the spells that had been cast as he ran. The little white spatters around him made him look at his shoulder, and sure enough, he seemed to be leaking globs of light.

Maybe he wasn't dead, then. Maybe he was just going crazy. He glanced up again and noticed, near the fallen tree, three shining globes hovered around a fourth, which was sputtering like a candle that had reached the end of its wick. Harry felt a chill.

Was that… were those…?

Harry found himself suddenly unwilling to wait and see what would happen. Maybe the four wizards who were chasing him knew what had happened to him, and were somehow performing the same spell on one of their own, to catch him in this…world, or whatever it was. He lurched to his feet, pushing through the thick underbrush, and by the light of his own glowing veins, gave the wizards a wide berth and found his way back to where he thought Privet Drive should be.

It was hard to tell if he was going the right way, since the landscape didn't really correlate to the real world. Trees and bracken seemed to be in abundance, but where he thought there should be buildings or streets, there were instead mounds of stone and stretches of grass. Except in the near distance, he caught sight of one glowing outline of a house, and he knew it was Number 4. The magical wards on the place made it light up like it was Christmas at the Schaefers' (Mr. and Mrs. Across-the-Street who won the neighborhood lighting decoration contest every year, to Aunt Petunia's chagrin). Thinking of the Dursleys helped ground him a little. He wondered where they were. Had they come home to their destroyed living room yet?

He passed by more of the pale blue puddles on his way, but none of them were very large. In fact, he estimated they might be counterparts to the bits of rainwater that had collected in ditches and around drainage pipes in the real world.

Or, well, the real_er_ world. He still wasn't sure what this was, exactly.

The warm wind rarely slackened as he walked, but when it did, he could hear many faint and distant sounds. People talking, whispering, or creatures howling, moving through the twilight landscape. Some of them sounded like they came through a muffled curtain, while others seemed to be simply very far away, voices carried on the breeze. Once or twice he saw tiny creatures in the vegetation—beautiful little things of delicate lines in carefully arranged hues. Like tropical insects, tiny birds, and things that defied his description, all made of neon lights.

He wondered if this were all his imagination. If it was, he was impressed with himself. A little bit worried, as well, but mostly impressed.

He arrived at the front walk of Number 4, noting the shining barriers around the property, layered up over the doors and windows, and especially around what he recognized to be his room. He could also see the remnants of his battle in the living room—though he'd repaired most of what he'd broken, the magic left scars, like afterimages burned in a retina.

Mrs. Figg's house, a short distance away, had its own faint outlines, but they were very dim compared to Number 4. It was easier to see it by the scattered little pricks of color that were probably magical objects, and the greenish glow of what he guessed was the fireplace, hooked up to the Floo network.

He looked around at the dark landscape, and the spots and clusters of lights like earth-bound nebulas. How was he supposed to reverse this? A niggling idea in the back of his mind made him glance about for a puddle.

He noticed an elevated pool that must have been the birdbath in Mrs. Figg's backyard. Several little yellow lights perched around the edge. He decided they were probably birds. Did every living thing have a glowing core like that? He wondered why he wasn't a simple spot of light, instead of this ghastly array of glowing cords.

He made his way purposefully toward the birdbath, although in this world it rested in a rough pillar of dark stone. The little yellow orbs stirred slightly at his approach, as if they could sense him coming. Maybe he was actually still walking around in his real body, he thought with a jolt. But then he discarded the idea; he had effectively walked through dozens of houses already.

Taking a deep breath, he plunged his arm into the pale blue liquid, and the yellow orbs scattered in a frenzy. He could actually feel wind and splashes on his hand, and the beating of wings. The dark world around him blurred, and the whisperings momentarily became a dull buzz.

Hastily he pulled his hand back out, feeling disturbed and thinking he'd rather not have Arabella look out the back window and see a disembodied arm sticking out of her birdbath.

He knew a moment of dizzy disorientation when he tried to wrap his mind around the idea that this whole _world_ was completely upside down to the other. If down was up, and up was down, was he looking _up_ at the ground, and _down_ into the sky? For a second he stumbled a bit, imaging falling into the inky darkness of that endless abyss above—below?—him. What if he lost his grip on the ground, and just fell up and up—?

_Get a hold of yourself, Potter_, he thought, giving himself a mental slap. There was no point in getting all existential. For practical purposes, gravity still worked. He frowned. At least, so far.

He considered the birdbath again. The wind picked up, carrying a slight chill. Was it as simple as that? Could he just jump in, and come out the other side? It seemed too easy.

The chill deepened. The fact that it felt familiar, in a place so completely unfamiliar, made his thoughts grind to a halt as his hackles rose.

He spun around, just in time to see a bank of dark shapes bearing down out of the night. A blast of winter-cold air rolled before them, and the feeling of sheer, frenzied _hunger_ that slammed into him was palpable.

They were huge, terrifyingly fast, and their tattered robes whipped about them in an evil, frigid wind.

_Dementors?_ He was utterly stunned, grasping for reason. They were unlike any Dementor he'd ever faced. They were not slow and drifting, mindless or wandering. The first wave of despair crashed into him like a physical thing, and this time he could _see_ the life being sucked out of him as they rushed in.

He didn't even stop to wonder if his magic would work here. He whipped up the bar of light that was his wand.

For a terrible second he struggled. He thought of the word 'happy' and dredged up image after image of things and times that he had come to associate with Sirius. He almost staggered under the crushing heartache, but conjured up an image of the DA— the happiness of teaching them and the pride he felt when they did well—and desperately shouted, "_Expecto Patronum!_"

To his utter shock, instead of the silver apparition he'd expected, the shape that exploded from his wand was towering and solid. The mighty stag made flesh and blood, a twelve-foot tall beast of sinew and strength that thundered on flashing hooves toward the inky shapes. Harry took one moment to watch the giant stag rip into the Dementors with thrashing antlers, before whirling toward the glowing birdbath.

In that split second before he turned away, he saw something else—something big and predatory—tear into the black creatures from behind, but it was too quick, and he couldn't tell what it was.

Without another thought, he took a running leap, and dove in headfirst.

Light and dark flashed briefly through his tightly shut eyelids, as water or wind buffeted him on all sides. It was like being squeezed through river rapids. It roared in his ears and spun him around, and light flashed blindingly behind his eyes.

And then with a sucking pop, like the feeling of getting the water out of his ears, he was flying through the air. He managed to tuck his head and land sharply on the back of his shoulders before tumbling into the grass.

He coughed and panted hard, blinking and staring up at a blessedly sunny blue sky. He hurriedly lifted his arms, and sure enough they were covered in skin. His wand was made of wood, and his clothes were made of cloth. He gave a loud whoop for joy from where he lay flat on his back.

He didn't even mind anymore that his shoulder was still dislocated, or that he was bleeding everywhere, or that he seemed to be covered in some kind of faintly phosphorescent gunk. The Dementors were trapped on the other side, and he was alive!

He lay there in Mrs. Figg's backyard for several more minutes, simply enjoying the sun on his face and the sounds of the neighborhood—squealing kids, purring cars, a lawnmower that wouldn't start, and bugs whirring around in the slightly overgrown grass.

Finally rolling to his feet, in a mind for a good hot shower, he hesitated a moment and stepped back over to the birdbath. It was an unassuming little thing, hardly wide at all. Gingerly, he poked a finger in, and touched the bottom. It was barely two inches deep, and certainly not deep enough to be a portal to the underworld, or whatever that place had been. Taking a deep breath, he tried again, holding in his mind a need for escape, a way out. He watched carefully as his finger neared the bottom of the bath, and grit his teeth as slowly, very slowly, the white plaster stretched away from him. It pulled away around his hand, like a sinkhole in the earth, widening and deepening impossibly as he watched.

His nerve failed him, and he snatched his hand out. The birdbath snapped back to normal. Harry stared at it, before beginning to curse under his breath. As if his life were not already strange and complicated enough. Maybe Hermione knew something about it. That thought reminded him of his other problem—the one that seemed more and more likely to end with him setting his bed on fire while he slept.

He turned and walked back to the Dursleys, completely ignoring the destruction on the first floor. Before he would consider fixing anything, talking to anyone, or even thinking about all the problems that clamored for his attention, he was going to take a long shower.

* * *

When he headed downstairs, freshly cleaned and wearing a pair of pajama pants along with a big pad of gauze over his shoulder, it was to find his house full of people. He froze at the top of the top of the stairwell, identifying the milling chaos as magical folk, and likely Ministry officials. They seemed to been cordoning off areas, investigating the destruction with unfamiliar instruments, chatting in little groups and clutching bits of parchment. Owls flew in and out, and if Harry hadn't known any better, he would have thought this was some kind of homicide investigation. He wondered if anyone had managed to find the Dumbledore-copy hidden under the stairs, and had to suppress a smirk at the idea that the old man might still be there, waiting with bated breath while half the Ministry flurried around outside.

He stepped gingerly down the stairs, careful not to jostle his bad arm, and, when no one seemed to have the time to notice him, called out, "What's going on?"

Everyone nearby froze, jaws dropping, and slowly the entire house went quiet as conversations died out and more people turned or moved to stare at him. A clipboard slipped and hit the floor somewhere nearby.

"Harry!" a familiar voice gasped in astonishment. Harry had just a moment to identify the speaker as Professor Dumbledore, who had appeared at the doorway to the kitchen, before the room exploded with noise. People pressed forward, demanding to know where he'd been, who he'd been fighting, what had happened.

Harry backed up one step, startled, and the Headmaster pressed through the rather unyielding crowd. "Harry, my boy," Dumbledore said when he'd reached him, and Harry was slightly shocked at the profound relief in the old man's voice. "You gave us all quite a scare."

Harry found himself taken up in a quick hug, and hardly knew how to react except to choke on the pain in his shoulder, before the Headmaster stepped back and took in his condition. "Ah, I do apologize, Harry, that was careless of me." With a piercing blue gaze, he asked, "Aside from the shoulder, are you quite all right?"

Harry nodded, torn between being immensely relieved to see the real Dumbledore, and feeling bitter in the knowledge that the man's concern was born from the Prophecy, rather than any real attachment to Harry.

"Very good," the old wizard said with a small smile. The crowd of officials and Aurors had quieted down, and Dumbledore patted him on the back. "We can sort this all out after you've had some medical attention. Poppy will be able to more thoroughly fix you up, I should think. St. Mungo's is not the place for you at the moment."

Several protestations went up as Dumbledore escorted Harry toward the front door. He caught sight of Tonks, who gave him a wink and a salute before he shuffled out. Once on the doorstep, he suddenly realized he was ill prepared to make a trip anywhere, since he had nothing but his pajama pants, his boxers, and his wand, but Dumbledore seemed to anticipate his thoughts. "I will have someone retrieve your things and send them over to the school after you're settled in."

Harry nodded, and then frowned in surprise. "I'm going to be staying there?"

Dumbledore looked tired. "Your home has been compromised, and your relatives are missing." Harry stiffened at this. The Dursleys were _missing_? Dumbledore went on, his voice laced with sympathy. "Until we discover the source of this deception, Hogwarts is the safest place for you, Harry."

"What about Grimmauld Place?" he asked, and then immediately regretted it. He wanted no part of that house.

"Ah," Dumbledore said, looking down at him sadly. "I had meant to discuss this with you this week. Sirius left a will—" Harry flinched at this, and the Headmaster paused at his expression, before continuing. "Until it is processed through the proper channels, and all parties are notified, we don't know how safe that location is. We—the Order, that is—are reasonably certain the house and property therein will have been left to either Remus, or yourself, but…" He lifted a hand and let it fall.

Harry grit his teeth, staring at the ground. They had paused just outside the anti-Apparation wards. "Who was it?" he asked quietly.

"We don't know yet," Dumbledore informed him, eyes taking on a steely glint as he looked away. Harry blinked to see how very angry the old man was. "He was using a device called a Polyjuice drip, which allowed him to continuously pump the potion into his bloodstream. He has only been withdrawn for little more than an hour." He took a breath through his long, crooked nose, as if to calm himself.

"Why are you so mad about this, Professor?" Harry asked him carefully.

Dumbledore looked at him, and gave him a weary smile. "We'll have time to discuss this further, if you wish, another time. For now, it would be best to get you patched up before you fall down, I think."

Harry grimaced slightly, unhappy with the old man's answer, but thinking it better not to press the issue. Dumbledore took him by the elbow, and they disapparated.

They appeared in Hogsmeade with a crack, and Harry had to flex his jaw to clear out his ears, before continuing the conversation. "So Tonks got my owl? You guys found the note?"

"Yes," Dumbledore replied pleasantly as they resumed walking. "Ms. Tonks was quite impressed with you, I might add."

Harry felt a flush of pride.

"I feel I must also extend congratulations, Harry. The impression I received from the rather disheveled state of your house leads me to conclude you overcame quite the skilled opponent."

Harry ducked his head, slightly embarrassed now.

"That you managed to come out nearly unscathed is remarkable, given the structural damage to the living room." Dumbledore's gaze was roving over the village, and so he did not see the silent struggle play over Harry's face. "How did you manage to avoid being smashed, if you don't mind my asking?"

Harry cleared his throat, considered setting the story straight, and then thought better of it. "Lucky, I guess."

Dumbledore just chuckled, and they continued on in companionable silence. The sun was low in the sky, and as they were nearing the castle gates, Hedwig appeared overhead. She swooped down as if to land on Harry's shoulder, and he smiled to see her, silently praising her as the best and bravest owl there ever was.

They both seemed to realize at the same moment that Hedwig landing on Harry's bare shoulder was a bad idea. She screeched loudly and banked sideways, he gave a shout and tried to dodge, and the result was that the big white owl collided with his face, and he went down in a flurry of flailing limbs.

All the way up to Madame Pomphrey's hospital wing, Dumbledore kept dissolving into chuckles, and by the time the Headmaster had to take his leave, Harry was thoroughly glad to see him go.

Pomfrey insisted he spend the night in the hospital wing, and after a plate of sandwiches, and what was probably a bit too much painkiller potion, he amused himself for nearly an hour trying to reach through a glass of water to the Other Side. As he didn't really plan on going back—ever—it was a rather useless skill. But he was bored, and it was pretty brilliant to stick his entire arm in a tiny glass. When he got really bored, he set two glasses on the bedside table and reached both arms in, nearly up to his shoulders, and wished someone else had been there to see him looking completely armless.

Although, when Pomfrey came in to check on him, he had to pull them out very quickly, lest she think he'd somehow managed to chop off both limbs right after she'd patched them up. They came out covered in goop again, but a quick '_scourgify_' took care of it before she even noticed anything strange.

He fell asleep guffawing at the image of his arms as they must have appeared from the Other Side, neon orange appendages waving about in midair.


	5. Magical Beasts and Where to Find Them

CHAPTER 5

Harry woke up late the next morning. His shoulder felt much better, if a little stiff. Pomfrey had popped it back into place with a frightening show of strength, and the slice, which had gone through deep muscle, was mending nicely. Rain was drumming on the tall, narrow windows of the hospital wing, and he could see cloud shadows scudding across the grounds, competing with struggling sunbeams. Madam Pomfrey was nowhere in sight, and he looked around blearily, wondering what he was supposed to do with his time while cooped up in the castle.

When his gaze landed on the teetering mound of letters on his bedside table, he groaned. It wasn't that he disliked correspondence, but after getting a look at the headline for the Daily Prophet, he had an idea that he wouldn't like what any of the letters had to say.

Resigned to his fate, he snagged the paper and snapped it open.

HARRY POTTER: VIGILANTE OR VILLAIN?

A Rita Skeeter Exclusive

Well that wasn't a leading question at all, Harry thought, snorting quietly.

_With the Wizarding World on the brink of another catastrophic war, it helps us all to know that there are still a few beacons of light. A few Bastions of Hope for the common citizen to turn to, and take examples from, in these dark times. _

_But what if one of those so-called Heroes is not who we all thought he was? We have lauded his name since he was just an infant, and he has the Wizarding World's unflinching devotion _(Harry had to pause a moment and stare up at the ceiling here, and count slowly to ten before continuing to read). _Now, new details have come to light that cast a pall of suspicion and doubt over one Harry Potter's true motivations._

_Just two days ago, during the widely covered Diagon Death March (July 16__th__, Rita Skeeter Exclusive) this reporter was up to her ears in destruction and devastation, when the most unlikely of shoppers appeared on the scene. Who other than Mr. Harry James Potter, looking dapper in an American baseball cap and obviously trying to avoid detection? He claims to have been helping to fight the alleged Death Eaters, but this reporter has her doubts. When asked what he had been doing in Diagon Alley in the first place, though a known recluse, Mr. Potter answered, "Er, shopping." Let it be noted that Mr. Potter was carrying no purchases _(Harry cursed—he most certainly _was_ carrying purchases, they were just shrunk!)_, and disappeared soon after._

_Just yesterday, Mr. Potter was involved in a major investigation after his house was found destroyed, and inside sources have admitted that Mr. Potter had been charged with no fewer than 17 counts of underaged wizardry. An eyewitness claims that, though the house Harry shares with his aunt, uncle, and cousin was thoroughly trashed, Mr. Potter appeared before Ministry Officials acting as if nothing were amiss. Further inquiries—_

Harry finally put the paper down with a growl. How could a reporter who seemed to be everywhere and know everything still get the story so wrong? Or was it just her venomous nature that delighted in turning everything into a scandalous, horrifying gossip-mongering disaster? She had the details; she simply decided to leave out just enough to make it sound suspicious. He scanned down to the bottom, where Skeeter presented the 'facts' and brought the article round to a question of whether he was helping or 'illegally hindering' known criminals.

In a flash of frustration, Harry flung the paper across the room, where it hit the door to Madame Pomphrey's office before bursting into flame. This only served to fuel his anger, and he snatched his wand from the bedside table to cast an "_Aguamenti_!" powerful enough to douse the newspaper and strip the finish from the bottom of the door.

He angrily tossed his wand aside, to hear it clatter away under one of the vacant beds, and flumped back on his pillows with a frustrated sigh.

In one last fit of pique, he wandlessly banished the pile of letters and watched them scatter across the room.

The hospital wing door opened just then, and Dumbledore stepped in, looking about. "I see you've received your mail," he said mildly, and stepped gingerly over several soggy envelopes to take a seat on the bed next to Harry's.

"More or less," Harry replied, glowering at the still smoldering remains of the Daily Prophet. "I really hate—" and then he broke off, because he couldn't settle on just one thing.

"Believe me, Harry, when I say that I understand," Dumbledore assured him. "Although it might be prudent to alert someone the next time you go out in public. While your actions in Diagon Alley were commendable, it was also rather reckless to put yourself in that position." Harry's expression darkened further, and seeing it, Dumbledore waved his hand. "Well, that is neither here nor there. I thought I'd drop by to see how you were doing, and to make sure you settled in properly, since Professor McGonagall, who would normally oversee such things, finds herself a bit preoccupied at the moment."

Thinking of the Deputy Headmistress led Harry to ask, "Are you going to be reinstated as Headmaster this year, sir?"

"As questions regarding my sanity have been summarily dismissed, happily, that would be an affirmative," Dumbledore replied with a smile.

'_Yes' in old-man-speak_. "So what's up with McGonagall?"

"_Professor _McGonagall, Harry," Dumbledore corrected him. He then hesitated, and immediately had Harry's undivided attention. "I only tell you this because you have been quite deeply involved. Under normal circumstances, I would prefer to bury this silently, and I trust you to act with appropriate discretion." He peered at Harry over his half-moon glasses, and waited until Harry nodded before continuing. "It was Professor McGonagall who attacked you in your home yesterday, Harry."

Harry simply let his mouth fall open.

"It has been confirmed that she was operating under a variation of the Imperius curse, a Confundus charm, several mind-wipes, and, as you are aware, a Polyjuice potion. As you might expect, when the Polyjuice wore off while she was detained at the Ministry, we were all rather out of sorts."

Harry just shook his head, trying to imagine it, and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. He couldn't get his brain around it. McGonagall? _McGonagall_ had attacked him, looking like Dumbledore? "Who did this? Who got to her? How did they get your hair? What were they after?"

Dumbledore put up his hands to forestall him. "All very good questions, Harry. Unfortunately, Professor McGonagall has been, as they say, put through the ringer. It may be a while before we have answers."

Harry sat for a moment, trying to think of something to say. "Bloody hell."

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed, frowning slightly. "I am now faced with the unpleasant prospect of finding a new Transfiguration professor, as well as a new Deputy Headmaster, before the start of term."

Harry shot him a bewildered glance. "She's not teaching anymore?"

Dumbledore gave him a fond smile. "It is good to see you don't hold it against her, Harry. I'm sure that will go a long way toward putting her mind at ease. No, until this is all sorted out, I'm afraid she is still technically suspect, and her teaching duties have been suspended."

Harry fell silent, thoughts whirring. After a minute, he admitted, "I'm actually kind of surprised it took so long for something like this to happen." He looked up to see Dumbledore giving him an expression of consternation, so he elaborated. "Someone impersonating you, Professor. In case you hadn't noticed, you have quite a lot of influence."

Dumbledore's expression darkened fractionally. "Unfortunately, you are quite correct. That's a small part of why this worries me so very much." He seemed to realize whom he was talking to, then, because his face cleared and he gave Harry a smile. "I daresay there is a silver lining, however; I am again reminded of my own fallibility."

Harry slumped, feeling the weight of his previous carelessness. "So you never sent a note, then?"

"I'm afraid not, my boy."

"It didn't seem like you," Harry admitted. He then straightened with alarm. "If you didn't send it, then who did Hedwig take my response to? Can owls be Obliviated? Can we retrieve her memory? Maybe we can—"

"One thing at a time, Harry," Dumbledore interrupted gently. "I assure you, we have conscripted the very best minds to investigate what has transpired, and I shall make certain to bring your concerns to their attention. Now, enough talk of gloom and doom. I had better make myself scarce before Poppy forcibly removes me for harassing a patient. Do make yourself at home Harry, and don't hesitate to avail yourself of the library and the kitchens. I would prefer you didn't leave the castle unattended, but I do believe there are a few staff about who would be willing to escort you."

Harry just nodded, wavering between amusement and irritation. Dumbledore stood to leave, but Harry quickly spoke. "One more thing, Professor!" The old wizard turned back. "Would it be all right with you if I went to the Burrow next Sunday? Ron invited me, and I told him I'd ask you…"

Dumbledore paused, considering. "I will allow it on one condition."

Harry slumped, wondering with dread what it might be.

The Headmaster gave him a knowing smile. "A horse-trade, you might say. I will allow you one week at the Burrow. In exchange, you will consent to giving occlumency with Professor Snape one more chance."

Harry swallowed a flash of displeasure. "And by 'chance,' you mean…?"

"One more session, keeping in mind that your success or failure may directly or indirectly affect countless lives."

Harry twisted his mouth, defeated. "When you put it that way…"

"Very good," Dumbledore said happily. "I will inform Professor Snape of your acquiescence. I expect you will be seeing him very soon."

"Looking forward to it," Harry sighed, sinking further into his bedding and trying not to think about the consequences of not learning occlumency.

"Get some rest, Harry," Dumbledore told him.

As if summoned, Madame Pomfrey appeared just then, exclaiming over the state of the room, and the old man made good his escape.

After checking his bandages, Pomfrey declared Harry 'fit for the next round of punishment,' which he took to mean he was free to go. As if anticipating his thoughts, the nurse said, "Atata, you're not going anywhere until you clean up this mess! And don't strain that shoulder," she added on her way out the door.

Harry sighed, summoning his wand from where it had skittered under one of the beds. He snatched it from the air, and froze. Wandless summoning? It had felt so natural that he'd hardly thought about it—like reaching for a glass or pulling open a door. How many times had he done it? He couldn't recall when he'd started, but the habit struck him as unusual. Was this another symptom of his malfunctioning magic?

Feeling uneasy, he decided his sopping mail was a worthy distraction. The floor was flooded from his summoned fire-hose, soaking most of the letters through. He wracked his brain for a proper solution. "What I need is a dehydration spell," he muttered to himself. In the end he settled for a simple "_Evanesco_!" which vanished the water but left the envelopes rather damp. He pried them all open and set them out to dry on the empty beds, vowing to look at them later.

He decided to spend the day wandering the castle, and marveled at how strange it was to see it completely empty of living, breathing humans. His things had been placed in one of the empty suites in the staff wing, so he trotted on up to retrieve the Marauder's Map from his trunk. He was rather surprised to see that literally everything he owned had been brought up. To be fair, that wasn't really a great deal more than what he usually brought to Hogwarts every year, but he still shook his head in amazement as he left. It just wasn't practical. Witches and Wizards were crazy.

Map in hand, he set off.

Every once in a while he would cast a spell—something innocuous like a sonorous charm to make his voice echo, or a transfiguration that turned torch sconces into flying squirrels—just because he could. He was fairly secure in the belief that Hogwarts' wards would shield him from the wrath of the Ministry's owls, and it made him grin with quiet glee. He couldn't imagine how wizard-raised students managed to stay sane. He'd only known about magic since he was eleven, and it was maddening not being able to cast anything over the holidays. Growing up with it and not being able to use it must be torture.

Sometime during the day, Harry was in the middle of levitating all the nearby suits of armor, one at a time, so that they crowded around the entrance to the Divination Tower. He had a suspicion that Trelawney was up there, and that she would have to come down for a meal sooner or later. He figured he owed her for giving the prophecy that was making his life difficult, and thought the silent rabble of armor would properly freak her out, especially if she was coming out of one of her 'meditation sessions.' He chuckled while he worked, imaging her reaction.

He looked up as Peeves floated around a corner with an armload of what looked like squid eggs, and they both froze.

"Peeves," he acknowledged carefully.

"Pukey-Potter," the poltergeist replied, unusually stoic.

"What are you up to?"

"Nothin'," the poltergeist said, shrugging delicately, and the eggs shifted with a squelching sound. He seemed to be studying Harry appraisingly, which made Harry rather uncomfortable. "What might puny little Potter be doing?"

Harry gestured at the crowd of armor. "Pretty obvious, isn't it?"

Peeves cracked a grin. "Poor old Trelawney. Potter's got a mean streak. Maybe Peevesy should warn her?"

Harry, whose curiosity was overwhelming him, had a better idea. "Need a hand with those?"

Peeves looked momentarily as if someone had hit him from behind with a paralyzing curse—his wide mouth fell open, and he simply stared at Harry. A squid egg fell to the floor and bounced, unnoticed. Harry wondered briefly if any student had ever offered to help the poltergeist with a prank, before Peeves' expression turned positively giddy. He beckoned with a jerk of his head. "Follow me, Potter."

Feeling slightly apprehensive, but too curious to change his mind, Harry followed the little floating man through the castle, picking up the squid eggs that got dropped along the way. Peeves took the time to regale him with stories of past exploits, and proved to be a goldmine of knowledge about the professors and their embarrassing habits. Soon they had reached the dungeons, and Harry felt a sort of morbid anticipation. "We're not going to mess with Snape, are we?"

Peeves cackled. "Potter's got the right stuff. No, this scheme's the 'delayed gratification' sort." And he proceeded to tell Harry the plan. Apparently, the Giant Squid was actually a _boy_ squid, and Peeves thought it wasn't fair for the poor cephalopod to be lonely. He'd managed to acquire these squid eggs through a contact—and here Harry shuddered at the idea of Peeves with contacts—but they had to wait to put them in the lake for the mermaids to take their biannual exodus.

"How do they leave?" Harry asked, who had been laboring under the assumption that the lake was…well, a lake. "And where do they go?"

"Keeps their secrets close, they do," Peeves replied with a shrug. "Dumblydore probably knows—speaks mermish, and all."

"Durmstrang had that ship that could travel underwater," Harry said thoughtfully. "Maybe that's the same thing."

They were nearing the very lowest levels of the dungeons, where the stone walls ran slick with condensation. At the end of one mossy passageway, Peeves phased right through a pair of heavy double doors, dropping his load of squid eggs. A second later he phased back, cursing colorfully.

Harry stifled his snigger and used his wand to open the doors. He was surprised to see the pebbled spit that he remembered from first year, when they'd rowed across the lake on their first day. The little beach deeply undercut the stone cliff upon which Hogwarts stood, and it was strange to see the bright lake beyond rimmed by the low ceiling of the cave.

He levitated the pile of squid eggs, following Peeves out onto the beach, and dumped them in one of the little boats that was pulled up near the cave wall.

The Poltergeist explained that the mermaids would be gone in about two weeks, and that, until then, they had to keep the eggs contained under the cliff, in the water. Then they would move the eggs into the deepest part of the lake, where they could hatch and have a chance to grow undisturbed. Harry was impressed, and a little frightened, by the sheer methodical plotting that Peeves demonstrated.

"And when the ickle firsties come over the lake in September, all unsuspecting, they'll be swarmed by _dozens_ of squid, instead of just one!" the poltergeist finished triumphantly. "And the next year, there'll be even more of them…"

"They'll breed like rabbits," Harry agreed. It was brilliant.

They got to work on the underwater pen. By the time they'd finished, and dropped the eggs into the cold, clear water, the sun was dropping low over the mountains, bathing the lake in gold.

Harry thought he understood Peeves a little bit better. Doing things for the sake of chaos had its own sort of beauty—who was to say one purpose was more important than another? If there were no chaos, then order wouldn't exist to control it. It was like the need for shadow to demonstrate light. Or the need for evil to appreciate good. It was a necessary balance.

Plus, the mental image of little first years panicking while baby squids the size of porpoises swarmed their boats was way too precious.

After Peeves badgered him into promising to help with a different prank later in the week, Harry tromped up to the Great Hall, hoping there might be some kind of staff dinner.

He was rather disappointed to find out that there wasn't, and the feeling that he was completely isolated grew. What if Voldemort or one of his frighteningly creative new lackeys showed up? It would probably take a few days for anyone to notice Harry was missing, he thought with a snort. He redirected his footsteps toward the kitchens, casting a '_scourgify!'_ as he went, in an unsuccessful attempt to remove the smell of baby squid from his robes.

He was received enthusiastically by the skeleton crew of house-elves in the big kitchens—when he arrived through the painting hole, they seemed to be playing a game of cards, though they were quick to hide it. Harry didn't fail to notice that one of them seemed to be cleaning the rest of them out.

"Where is everyone?" he asked them, trying not to smile.

Six pairs of shiny, globe-like eyes stared up at him, and one responded in a high, oddly gravely voice, "Students is not coming back to Hogwarts until September, Harry Potter sir!"

"I know _that_," Harry responded, rolling his eyes and grinning. They thought he was some kind of idiot. "I meant the other house elves."

They all seemed baffled that he would care to ask, glancing amongst themselves, before the same one spoke up—an older male with washed-out blue eyes. "Some go help at Wizard hostels for the summer, Harry Potter. Lots go help on the wizard ship, Galloping Galleon. Nasty ship," he added, looking aside.

"What's your name?" Harry asked him, certain that he'd been one of the friendlier elves he remembered from last year.

"Harry Potter asks for name?" the house-elf repeated, blinking and looking inordinately happy. Harry nodded carefully, and the elf plucked at his tea-towel before responding, "Ha-Harry Potter must not try to free house-elves again this year…"

Harry blinked, and cringed when he remembered the somewhat catastrophic culmination of Hermione's efforts with S.P.E.W. "I promise," he assured him, and noticed that the rest of the elves relaxed noticeably.

"Pistol is at Harry Potter's service." The house-elf sketched a bow, large ears flapping.

Harry gave his head a shake, unsure if he'd heard correctly. "Pistol?"

Pistol nodded with zeal. "Pistol's former master was from Australia, Harry Potter sir. When Pistol was very young, he bought Pistol's ancestral home near Ballycastle. In Northern Ireland, Harry Potter sir," the little elf added helpfully.

"Wow," Harry said. That explained the elf's slightly strange accent. "What happened to him?"

"During last war, Pistol's master was… was…" the house-elf broke off, shaking his grizzled head, before trying to finish.

"It's okay, Pistol," Harry offered, patting the elf on the shoulder. He'd gotten the gist of it, and seeing those pale blue eyes water with tears was making his own throat close up. It was somewhat heartening to see a house elf in Hogwarts who hadn't been mistreated, though.

"Harry Potter is very kind," Pistol mumbled, clearing his throat. "Would Harry Potter like some dinner?"

Harry and the other house-elves all perked up at this suggestion, and when he nodded appreciatively, they all sped off like it was the start of a race.

While the house-elves watched him eat, and after he complimented them profusely on the meal, he asked about the Galloping Galleon. He remembered the ad he'd seen in Florean Fortesque's shop window, and wanted to know why Pistol thought it was a 'nasty ship.'

"Full of nasty wizards, it is," Pistol supplied.

"Like…" Harry paused to swallow a bite. "Death Eaters?"

"Some," Pistol agreed. "Some just not nice—gamble, drink; mean to house elves. Some nice wizards, though," Pistol added as an afterthought.

Harry was rather amazed at how free the elf was with his opinion, and the others all seemed to agree. But, he reflected, they were just 'rented' out to the ship; no one on board was their master. Unless… "Is Dumbledore on the ship?"

"Master Dumbledore will go on the ship while it comes by," one of the other house elves piped up.

"It's coming by the castle?" Harry asked, trying to imagine it. Would it arrive through the lake, like the Durmstrang ship?

Pistol shook his head, ears flapping. "Has to stay outside country—international waters."

Harry suddenly had a better idea what kind of ship this was, and what sort of people were on it. "When does it come by, Pistol?"

"Next month, Harry Potter sir," he said. His watery blue eyes turned down. "Poor house-elves has to stay on all summer, though."

Soon after that Harry thanked the elves for the meal, and left through the painting. It was getting late, but he decided to go peruse the library before heading to bed. He was itching to talk to Ron and Hermione—he had too many things on his mind, and no one to bounce his thoughts off of. He was getting tired of talking to himself.

The library was dim and dusty, and it felt as if it had been closed up for years, rather than just a month. Apparently Madame Pince went home for the summer, because there was no sign of her. The torches were all out, and the boiling clouds outside obscured all but a few scattered beams of aged sunlight.

"_Lumos_," Harry muttered, igniting the tip of his wand. He scanned through the normal sections, but held out little hope that there would be anything about squibs or malfunctioning magic in a school that _taught_ magic. He also wasn't holding his breath for any books about what appeared to be either a crack-dream of his own imagining, or the bloody gate to the underworld contained in puddles and glasses of water. "Restricted section it is, then."

He had just stepped over the little chain that barricaded the section when a familiar voice behind him snickered. "What's pesky Potter up to at this hour?"

Peeves. "Looking for books about falling through rain puddles," he said tonelessly, hoping the poltergeist would simply think he was being difficult and go away.

The lack of response made him look back. Peeves floated there in the dimness, and that considering expression was back. Harry briefly wondered just how smart the spirit really was. Peeves regarded him for a moment more, before grunting a thoughtful, "Huh," and disappearing through the floor.

Harry shook his head and returned to perusing the books. He didn't find anything that seemed very helpful, and left the library feeling defeated and frustrated.

He realized he'd been putting an awful lot of faith in being able to find answers at Hogwarts, and he felt as if the castle were letting him down. He couldn't wait to see Hermione next Sunday.

But what if she didn't have any answers either? She was just a kid, too, and she'd never had access to more information than he. She was just better at recalling seemingly disparate bits of knowledge, in her never-ending quest to read everything. That didn't mean she'd managed to find that one obscure fact that he hadn't. _He_ was actually looking, after all. Maybe he had too much faith in Hermione, too.

And what was he doing, anyway? He didn't have time to worry about such trivial things. He had to face down a Dark Lord. He should be spending his time training, or learning occlumency, or helping to fight. Instead he was stuck in this drafty, empty old castle while everyone else scrambled around trying to protect him.

And to cap it all off, he remembered belatedly, he still didn't even know where the Dursleys were!

Mind spinning down familiar circles, it took Harry a long time to get to sleep that night, and his dreams picked up where his thoughts had left off.

* * *

The next morning, Harry thrashed awake in a spectacular fashion, sweating and breathing hard and very nearly pitching off the bed. It took a moment for him to remember where he was, but putting on his glasses helped quite a lot. The unfamiliar stone and heavy drapes of the guest room met his gaze, and another teetering pile of mail greeted him from the little table by the window. He noticed someone had also brought up the mail he'd already opened and set out to dry in the hospital wing, and had stacked them up helpfully next to the new ones.

Harry scrubbed his face vigorously and ran his fingers through his hair. Cursing quietly, he summoned the mound of letters, and cursed a bit harder when they scattered across his bed like a stack of cards.

Half of the letters were from random people telling him he was doing a damn fine job, and to keep after those 'murdering bastards.' Harry couldn't help but smirk, both at their enthusiasm and the simple irony. Another few were from people who thought he was still touched in the head, and he quickly banished these to the dustbin. There were a couple from the adults in the Order who had taken it upon themselves to knock some sense into him—namely Molly Weasley, Remus Lupin, and, surprisingly, Mad-eye Moody, who had some helpful tips on spotting intruders. A few methods were rather extreme, and Harry reluctantly filed them away under 'possibly useful information.' The rest were from his friends, and Harry read them over with faint pleasure, but also slight impatience. It was hard to take any of them seriously when he was facing problems that they had no inkling of.

It made him sad to realize that, though he'd shared nearly everything with them for the past five years of his life, there was suddenly a barrier between them that Harry didn't know how to breach, or whether it was even possible.

There was a letter from Ron, asking again if he could come and stay on Sunday. There was even one from Luna, who made him laugh by insisting he 'give 'em hell!' though it wasn't really clear who she was referring to. Hermione had sent two; the first one in response to his request for help. She'd agreed—hesitantly—but reserved the right to try and convince him to go to Dumbledore. In the second, her tone was slightly hysterical, asking if the destruction of his aunt and uncle's house had anything to do with his 'problem', and why hadn't he just asked her sooner?

Twisting his mouth, Harry set about penning responses to all of them. To Ron he said 'yes,' to Hermione, he said 'no, and I'll talk to you about it this weekend,' to Luna and the other members of the DA he wrote 'thank-you's, and to the rest he wrote placating or assuring letters. These he didn't spend too much time on, because they made him grit his teeth in annoyance. Did they honestly think he got into these kinds of messes on purpose? Maybe he should start _really_ trying, and then see what they had to say.

He was just finishing up when a scratching sound drew his attention to the window. There was Hedwig, a letter in her bill, poking the glass with one downy foot. He tossed aside his covers, stretching his popping joints as he rose, and went to let her in. She hopped into the air, dropping the letter on his head, and flapped over to his bed, settling down and looking for all the world as if she meant to stay. "You're a strange bird," he told her, turning the note over in his hands.

It was from Dumbledore, asking if he would like to have tea the next day down in Hogsmeade at the Three Broomsticks. Harry read it very carefully, trying to decide if this time it really _was_ Dumbledore's writing. He didn't like this, not being sure if he could trust people, and especially the old man. He already had enough trust issues with Dumbledore.

"What do you think, Hedwig?" he asked the owl. She blinked her luminous yellow eyes at him and chattered in a thoughtful way. "Well, if you think it was really him, then I guess I'll go. Although you were wrong before, you know."

Hedwig shot him a reproachful glance, ruffling her feathers. Harry wrote out his agreement on the back of the note, and set it by the window. "Take it back to him when you like, Hedwig," he told her, patting the bird on the head before pulling on some jeans and a t-shirt and heading for the door. He caught himself raising his hand to summon his wand, and paused. He took a step toward where it sat on his bedside table, and paused again. He wrestled with himself, before finally murmuring, "_Accio._" The wand flew to his hand, and he left the room.

He had the Spellsmith's Almanac in his pocket again, and stopped by the library for a few books on magic theory. Reading about how these exemplary wizards had created their spells left Harry feeling as if he'd missed something in his years at Hogwarts, and he'd decided to solidify some of his basic knowledge. He wanted be able to not only perform the spells he was reading about, but maybe try to puzzle out some of his own.

He wasn't expecting anything very groundbreaking, to be sure. But he felt he should be doing something, and his gut was telling him that if he wanted to be good, he needed something different. Anyone could pick up a book and learn the things written there, and if everyone was learning the same spells, then they were likely all learning the same counter-spells and strategies. He knew Dumbledore was a pioneering spellsmith, and likely Voldemort was as well. Obviously they were doing something right.

So he shrunk down half a dozen likely books, and tromped out to the sprawling steps in front of the castle doors to sit in the morning sun. The Almanac talked about things like 'vectors' and 'arrays' and 'variable modifiers;' things which, at first glance, he could glean partial meaning, but in a practical sense he didn't even know where to begin.

So he started at the beginning. Piece by piece, a picture began to form of the things between the lines; the things that everyone was saying but no one was really paying attention to. _Wingardium Leviosa _was a mould—a shape for young students to fill. Somewhere in all this muddle of knowledge were the universal truths that he needed, and the basic rules that he had to understand before he could build anything.

He sat on the stone steps, totally immersed, for hours. The sun was high in the sky the next time he really looked up, and he became aware of the uncomfortable feeling that was his stomach trying to eat itself. He'd forgotten breakfast, and was well on his way to missing lunch as well.

Before he could totally commit himself to packing up and going to hunt for a meal, Hagrid appeared around the curve of the castle wall, great bushy head bobbing up and down as he hauled something large and ungainly over his shoulders.

"Hello Hagrid!" Harry called, feeling an overwhelming rush of fondness for the half-giant.

"Hullo Harry," Hagrid panted in reply, twisting slightly beneath his burden to look at him with a crinkly smile. "Wouldn't mind comin' ter give me a hand, would yeh?"

Harry, who had been wondering what the groundskeeper had been up to and mildly curious to boot, didn't mind at all. He shrank down his books and stuffed them in his pockets before jumping up to follow. "What—" Harry began, before realizing with a start that the thing on Hagrid's shoulders was looking at him.

"This 'ere's a wooly aurochs calf. Distant relations o' the Re'em, if yeh heard of 'em," Hagrid told him, hefting the solid beast as he walked. It gave a low grunt and a half-hearted twist, as if it had been trying to escape for a while now, and given up.

"That's a calf?" Harry asked doubtfully. Hagrid was having trouble with the beast for good reason—it had all the mass of a well-fed Angus bull, and the approximate conformation of a young American bison. It came by the tag 'wooly' honestly, as it was covered in thick, downy fibers the color of pale caramel. Its dewy snout and waving hooves were a spackled grayish-pink.

"Aye," Hagrid huffed. They were nearing his hut, and he looked like he was nearly spent. "I'm weanin' the little buggers at the mo', which would put this guy a' righ' abou' four months."

"Four months?" Harry repeated. He was beginning to feel like a parrot, but he couldn't help it. "How big are the adults? Where are you keeping them?"

"Oh, righ' around ten hands, I'd say." He paused, and added, "Ten o' my hands, tha' is." He held up one of his giant paws to Harry's, which was dwarfed three times over.

"Bloody hell," Harry breathed. Thirty hands would be twice as tall as the average thoroughbred stallion.

"Anyway," Hagrid grunted, as they reached his hut and he leaned over to deposit the aurochs calf on the grass. "I need yeh to watch the lil fellow while I grab some stuff fer 'is leg, all righ'?"

Harry immediately froze as Hagrid stepped inside his hut and the calf gained its feet. He put out his arms lamely, hoping to God or anyone that would listen that the giant calf didn't decide to try and go through him.

To his relief, the beast simply stared at him warily, favoring its right front leg, and appeared to be too tuckered out to move.

A moment later Hagrid reappeared, arms full of jars and bits of gauze and syringes. Harry moved to get a good look at the beast's injury, and hissed in sympathy. A flap of skin hung loose from its shoulder, and rivulets of blood were running down its knee.

"How did this happen, Hagrid?" Harry asked, feeling a surge of pity.

"Like I said, I'm weanin' 'em from their mums, and this guy didn' like it too much. Tried ter go through the fence an' got a bit tangled up." Hagrid set out his tools on the cabin steps, passing a big hand over the calf's snout and murmuring something to it. "Harry, if yeh would, could yeh hold this closed?"

Harry swallowed and moved forward, gingerly pushing the flap of skin closed, and trying to ignore the sticky blood flowing over his fingers.

"Thank yeh, lad. All roight." Hagrid pulled out a wand that was easily the length of a golf club, and about as thick as Harry's wrist. Harry's eyes bugged out, but Hagrid was too busy casting to notice. Tendrils of flickering blue enveloped the wound, knitting the tissue together like some kind of ethereal stitching. The calf's shoulder shuddered, and Harry saw little ice crystals forming. "There yeh are, good lad," Hagrid murmured, and Harry realized he was talking to the beast.

"This kind o' injury is always difficult, yeh know," Hagrid informed him. "S'not just a slash, see? There's a whole plane o' flesh tha' needs repairin'. This'll hold fer now, but it's always best ter double up, yeh know. Hand me tha' blue jar, an' the dark orange, will yeh?"

Harry complied, amazed at Hagrid's skill. "Next time I get thrashed, you can heal me instead of Pomphrey, okay?"

Hagrid chuckled, dousing the wound with orange liquid. "Prevents infection," he explained. He then applied some of the blue goop liberally, saying, "Promotes tissue growth. Hand me the syringe, and tha' small, ligh' green bottle."

Harry handed them over, trading for the first jars and setting those aside. Hagrid measured out the pale green fluid with the syringe, sans needle, before coaxing it into the corner of the aurochs' mouth and holding the beast's muzzle closed while it swallowed. "Tha's a good beastie," he told it, patting its flank. "Figured I'd worm 'im while 'e's ere," he said to Harry.

Harry just nodded bemusedly, and handed Hagrid the gauze and tape.

After he finished wrapping the calf's shoulder, Hagrid stood with a grunt and patted Harry on the back hard enough to knock the wind out of him. "And tha's all there is to it!"

Harry coughed and asked, "Are you going to take him back, then?"

"Nah," Hagrid replied, looking slightly embarrassed. "I'll give 'im a day or so to recover."

Harry suspected Hagrid simply didn't want to have to carry the half-ton beast all the way back. "Why don't you just levitate him?"

Hagrid gave him an affronted look. "How do _you_ like bein' levitated?"

Harry blinked. "Point taken."

"Well, thank yeh for your help, Harry," Hagrid told him sincerely. "I could show yeh the herd tomorrow if yeh'd like."

"I'm having tea with Dumbledore, but I'd really like to if you have time later in the day."

Hagrid's black eyes were sparkling with anticipation. "Ah, yeh're in for a treat, Harry! They're righ' beau'iful beasts."

The half-giant's enthusiasm was contagious, and Harry grinned back. He wondered why Care of Magical Creatures wasn't usually so engaging, and chalked it up to the fact that during school they were usually just oohing and aahing at unicorns or bowtruckles, and that idiot Malfoy was always causing some kind of trouble.

Hagrid invited him in for lunch, to which Harry heartily agreed, and they sat for a long time just discussing things of little importance. The topic of Sirius never came up, and Harry was shamefully grateful. Hagrid understood that he would bring up the topic if he wanted to, and respected him enough to leave it alone. To be honest, Harry had had enough of people trying to get him to open up about his feelings on the subject, and what he'd really been aching for all summer was just a bit of lighthearted, pointless conversation. Which of course, meant it wasn't pointless at all.

Afterwards, Harry and Hagrid each carried a sack of cow hearts laced with vitamins out to the forest to feed the thestrals. Hagrid explained to him along the way that the skeletal, winged horses did most of their own hunting, but he liked to supplement their diet when he could. Harry learned that Hagrid liked to supplement the diets of all the creatures in the Forbidden Forest, whether it was staking out sugar drips for some of the fairy varieties, or tossing a wooly aurochs to the acromantulas.

"Doesn't it bother you to patch them up one day, and then lead them to slaughter the next?" Harry asked as they took turns tossing hearts out to the thestrals. He was quickly loosing any last vestiges of squeamishness.

"Nah," Hagrid said. "Well, it does, I suppose. But I can' be picky abou' who needs wha', yeh know. It's all abou' balance. If one o' the nifflers has to go to feed one o' the hippogriffs, well then tha's wha' has ter happen."

Harry considered this soberly, thinking about that idea in the context of his own life. "Balance, huh?"

"It's a lot o' work managin' this forest, yeh know. I'm qui' well known in some circles, in fact," Hagrid told him with a puff of pride. "S'why I'm lookin' after this aurochs herd; a high profile job like this needs a professional's eye."

"High profile?"

"Aye, they're booked for entertainment on one o' them wizard ships. _The _wizard ship, I s'pose yeh might say."

"The Galloping Galleon," Harry hazarded a guess, while patting a thestrel who had decided to come up and say hello.

"Tha's the one," Hagrid agreed, pleased that he'd heard of it. "Bull figh'in' or some such. How they'll ge' those big softies ter charge anyone is beyon' me. Well, they are a bi' easily offended, if yeh go about things the wrong way."

Harry tried not to smile. Hagrid had a soft spot for every beast, and it hardly mattered if it was covered in fluff or leaking, poisonous pustules. He was forcibly reminded of the fiasco with Buckbeak and Malfoy. "So what's the secret?"

"Well, all yeh have ter do is presen' the back of yer neck, yeh know. Sor' of like with the hippogriffs, 'cept yeh have ter really get down so they can ge' a good look at yeh. Then they'll return the favor, and everybody's friends."

Harry just laughed. It was so simple to Hagrid, but so flabbergasting to everyone else.

When they ran out of cow hearts, Harry headed for the castle to wash up, promising again to come see the herd with Hagrid tomorrow. He was feeling much better about things, despite the fact that he hadn't really gotten any further in any of his goals. He remembered a time when the idea of tromping across the grounds after Hagrid and carrying his bags was just about the worst fate he could imagine, but it was obvious that Hagrid was very highly skilled, and very much enamored with what he did. Maybe if he had time, Harry could convince the half-giant to teach him a bit of what he knew.

After showering in the little bathroom in his guest suite, Harry spread out his books again. Hedwig was still there, having fallen asleep in a little nest she'd made of his covers, so he was careful not to whack her with any of the dusty old tomes. When it came time to grab some dinner, he poked the owl and she stared at him reprovingly, until he offered to take her down to the kitchens.

She happily flapped up to his shoulder then, and the house-elves, though initially uncomfortable with an owl in the kitchen, eventually warmed up to her. The poor bird probably ate more scraps than she could handle, and when they went back up to the room, Harry had to actually lift her onto his shoulder himself.

"Poor, gluttonous bird," Harry sighed, and laughed when she bit his ear.

* * *

Tea the next day with Dumbledore was brief. The old wizard either had nothing to report with relation to Voldemort's movements, or he was being less than forthcoming. Harry found himself becoming frustrated with him once again. It was good to be able to talk to the Headmaster, but if Harry was to be excluded from what was going on, they should just all dispense with this farce of him being a member of the Order and get it over with.

They did briefly discuss the continued missing status of the Dursleys, but Harry found it difficult to take it seriously. The wizarding world didn't know the Dursleys like he did; it was very likely they had simply jetted off on some family vacation without telling him. It seemed reasonable. They would have heard something otherwise.

Dumbledore also spoke in vague terms of the problems they were still unraveling from Professor McGonagall's romp through the ministry under the guise of the Headmaster. Evidently Harry was not the only one who'd been screwed with, but perhaps his case was the most spectacular. Harry did get a sense that Dumbledore was still privately seething about the whole thing; whether it was from embarrassment or something else, Harry wasn't sure.

Since he'd never known the Headmaster to seethe about anything, Harry had very nearly assumed it was another imposter at first. He'd seen the old man angry, sure, but this was different. It was like a constant irritation was wearing him down, and he was letting it show without even being aware of it.

There were many things Harry wanted to ask Albus Dumbledore. He wanted to ask him about building spells. He wanted to ask him about malfunctioning magic, and dark, frightening mirror worlds. He wanted to ask him about helping with the resistance. He wanted to ask him to teach him how to fight. He wanted to know how Harry, not-quite-sixteen-years old student wizard, was supposed to kill Voldemort.

But somehow, the cozy atmosphere of the Three Broomsticks didn't seem the right place, and the middle of the afternoon wasn't the right time. And Dumbledore, who seemed weary and distant, and who Harry still wasn't sure whether to trust or not, didn't seem like the right person.

He walked back to castle alone, feeling restless and dissatisfied. He wanted to crack open his trunk and fly his Firebolt as high as it would go; above the castle, above the mountains, and above the dark, rolling clouds. But he knew he wasn't supposed to, and for now he would try to keep doing as he was told. It was too much of a bother going through all the admonishing mail he received when he didn't.

He met Hagrid on the front steps, and they hiked around the perimeter of the grounds, toward the side of the castle that faced away from the lake. The terrain was rougher back here, and the Forbidden Forest seemed to have a hard time deciding where it began and where it ended. They took a path through the scrubby trees that eventually wound its way around the curve of a steep ridge. Harry began to recognize the area—they were close to where the Hogwarts Express tracks ended.

As they came around the foot of the forested ridge, Harry caught sight of their destination. Nestled in a cleft between ridges, there was a monolithic timber structure, with many smaller additions and two very long, narrow barns. On what little level ground there was around the buildings, there were pens and corrals, all arrayed around a central drive.

"Stable and Yard, Hogwarts School," Hagrid announced as they trudged up the cobbled drive. There were bits of grass and weeds growing up through the cracks, and the fences along both sides were looking rather droopy. Ancient oaks leaned over the road like grizzled sentinels; in places the trees had grown right around the fence-wire.

"I never even knew about this place," Harry marveled, staring up at the monstrous building. It was just an A-frame barn in basic principle, but, much like the Burrow, it had been enlarged and built upon and propped up and extended in just about every direction. The loft alone seemed like it could house an entire wing of the castle.

"Used ter be, kids would ride ter the castle on horses, yeh know, and they'd keep em 'ere fer the school year. Tha' was before the train, see. Used to have hunts and excursions an' all. I think in my time, there were still a few o' the more rural families who kept horses 'ere, but before I started rennervatin' abou' ten years ago, it'd fallen into total disuse." Hagrid held up his hands expressively. "Yeh shoulda seen some the whoppers I found in there, Harry. Yer friend Ron'd have kittens, he would, an these were jus' normal kinds o' spiders."

"This is quite a project, Hagrid," Harry said, looking around wide-eyed.

Hagrid pointed out the several pastures, the stock pens, the loading chutes, and the utility buildings. They poked their heads into the heavy sliding doors of the main barn, and Harry gaped at the vast distance to the dusty rafters. There were several partitions inside, with cattle style feeders, and several drop chutes for feed from above. The wings on both sides and to the rear of the main barn were stalls, Hagrid said, and even further in the back there was a modest indoor arena. Harry imagined modest by Hagrid's standards, in this case, were likely anything but.

Hagrid insisted they climb up to the loft, and Harry actually got a bit of vertigo climbing up the dusty ladder. In his own defense, it was probably nearing three stories up.

The loft was piled high with several varieties of hay, which Hagrid helpfully identified and Harry cheerfully forgot as soon as he heard them, as well as pallets and pallets of grain bags. When he asked how Hagrid had managed to stock the place by himself, Hagrid told him, "Well, yeh jus' open the upper doors over there where the hay elevator would go, and chuck 'em up. Bales only weigh abou' seventy kilos each, yeh know. Like tossin' hacky sacks, is all."

Harry shook his head before they climbed back down, and Hagrid cheerfully dragged him out and around to see the long, narrow stock barns, and finally the wooly aurochs herd in the back pasture.

"Aren' they beau'iful," Hagrid sighed, leaning on the log-post fence. With the mass of the barns at their backs, the pasture was framed only by the steep, forested ridges to either side, and the stormy sky above. Harsh yellow light managed to slip in from the west, lending everything a fiery outline.

"Yeah," Harry said, surprised to find it completely true. The beasts were huge, even from this distance. He might have been tempted to even say 'elephantine.' The younger ones, separated in an adjoining pen, were all tawny gold, but the adults were blonde, bordering on white, with massive, curling horns.

"This all used ter be a track," Hagrid said, waving a hand around. "I read tha' the students used ter race Arabian Zephyrs ou' here. Course they're endangered now, what with Zephyr tendons bein' an importan' component of the older racin' brooms…" He cast Harry a furtive glance. "Was thinkin' I migh' try and nab a few if I could, maybe star' somethin' up again." He seemed to be awaiting Harry's approval.

"That would be brilliant!" Harry told him enthusiastically. He wasn't quite sure what an Arabian Zephyr was, but it sounded fast, and that suited Harry just fine.

"Though' yeh might like tha' idea," Hagrid said with a hearty laugh. He sobered after a moment, and looked around a bit wistfully. "I still go' my work cut ou' for me, tha's for sure. How would yeh like givin me a hand wi' things this summer, Harry? I'd really—"

"Of course I will, Hagrid," Harry cut him off. Hagrid's ideas were great, and he was already doing so much. "Would you teach me some of the stuff you know?"

"Harry, if we ge' though all the stuff I'm plannin', you won' be able ter help learnin' it."


	6. The Galloping Galleon

CHAPTER 6

The rest of the week went in a comfortable pattern like that: answer mail, eat breakfast with the house-elves, study his books, maybe help Peeves set up one of his ticking time bomb pranks, lunch with Hagrid, and then it was off to spend the last half of the day tromping around after the half-giant, tending to creatures, working on buildings, setting up feed, cleaning out habitats, healing the ill or wounded, and everything else under the sun. Then Harry would drag himself back up to the castle, tired and often dirty, for a shower and then dinner in the kitchen. He might read a bit more before bed, and then fall into a blissfully fatigued and therefore dreamless sleep.

Because Harry had grown accustomed to these activities with an unfamiliar mixture of contentment and intrigue—he felt like he was actually learning something every day—it was with odd reluctance that he went to meet Dumbledore—who had been MIA all week—on Sunday morning for his trip to the Burrow.

It wasn't that he didn't want to see Hermione and Ron and the rest of the Weasleys, but he didn't want to throw a wrench in the progress he was making with spellsmithing. It seemed he would eventually have to dabble in some arithmancy, but with this solidifying base of knowledge, he had actually begun to understand some of the concepts.

A little. Bits of it. Well, smidges here and there were becoming slightly clearer than mud.

And there was so much going on with Hagrid's projects, and the Hippogriffs were nesting, the Centaurs were receiving emissaries from other herds, the merfolk would be leaving this week, which meant Peeves would be moving the squid eggs…

He almost laughed at himself as he entered Hogsmeade. It was the first time he'd ever felt like he was missing things by going to stay with his friends, rather than the other way around. He was so preoccupied with this unprecedented mix of feelings that he nearly jumped out of his skin when a distinctly un-Moody voice barked, "Constant vigilance, Potter!"

"Bloody hell, Tonks!" Harry muttered when he saw who it was. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Better to scare some sense into you now than to have you taken by surprise later," she responded with a grin, stepping out from the shadow of a shop to join him. Her hair was a platinum blond, swept up in an oddly elegant faux-hawk.

"If I die from cardiac arrest today, it won't really matter much tomorrow, will it?" Harry replied, allowing the young woman to drape an arm around his shoulders. "And I wasn't scared, anyway. Just preoccupied."

"Hah, sure. Just remember what I said, Harry."

"I've got Moody for that," he told her, trying not to smile. Though with Tonks, it was difficult. Her scent reminded him of apples and faint cigar smoke, and for a second he was thoroughly distracted. With an effort, he continued, "So what are _you_ going to do for me?"

"What am _I _gonna do?" she repeated. She levitated his heavy trunk. "I'll do this. And I'll get you to the Burrow in three pieces or less. I'll even smack you around a bit, if you fancy a duel later." Her smirk turned sly.

Harry decided to ignore this jibe, as it probably wasn't too far off from the truth. The idea was very attractive, though. "You're taking me, then? Where's Dumbledore?"

"Called away at the last minute," she replied. "More damage control, I expect. Right, ready to go?"

At Harry's nod, Tonks took him by the arm, and they disapparated. Harry had never enjoyed this side-along apparation business, and as he felt every fiber of his body being assaulted on all sides by nearly unbearable pressure, he couldn't help but compare it to the experience of being squeezed through Mrs. Figg's birdbath from the Other side. He found himself remembering that experience wistfully, when compared with the fleeting but violent torture that he was feeling now.

In the next second they'd popped back into existence, and Harry exhaled in a put-upon sort of way. "I need to learn to apparate," he told Tonks as they began the walk up the dirt drive. The Burrow looked cozy, nestled in the overgrown gardens and trees, like some giant pheasant hunkered down in the brush. The air was balmy and windy, and the sky had a distinctly stormy cast, as if it might start pouring down rain at any second.

"Not a bad idea, if you ask me," Tonks agreed, eyeing him. "You always being in the middle of everything and all."

Harry opened his mouth, a rebuttal already on his tongue, but instead he sighed and asked, "Why _does_ that always happen?"

"You attract trouble like dragons to a Hawaiian pig roast," Tonks agreed cheerfully. Harry squinted at this dubious comparison—_I'm the roasted pig?—_but she went on in a gruff voice that Harry took to represent the 'every-man,' "Maybe if ya'd just quit running around lookin' for it all the time!"

Harry snorted. "Ah, silly me; I never realized it was that simple!"

"The popular majority is all-knowing," Tonks said, winking at him. "You would do well to listen to them more often, young grasshopper."

"Gag me," Harry muttered.

"Hey, before we get swamped by Weasleys, Harry," Tonks said as they neared the front door, "I wanted to tell you not everybody's mad about what you did in Diagon Alley. Those kids were punks, but they might've hurt a lot of people if you weren't there, and though some of us don't act like it, we were proud of you. And you handled the situation at the Dursleys' really, really well. You stayed cool, you neutralized the perp, you left us instructions, and you got away safely."

Harry grimaced at that last bit. It had been pure, happy luck that he'd fallen through that puddle like he had. Those four wizards were just about to swoop in on him.

Tonks hadn't noticed, and continued, "Although, don't be surprised if the ministry sends someone to clear up a few details. The Dursleys are still missing. And you will have to explain how you managed to completely vanish. Whatever you did, it fooled all of the Ministry's tracking devices."

Harry didn't respond for a long moment, brain scrambling for an explanation that sounded less crazy than the truth. "I didn't do anything. They must've malfunctioned or something."

"Could be," she shrugged, eyeing him. "Anyway, you did good. That bit with the refrigerator magnet…" her smile of pride faltered for a fraction of a second, and Harry looked down. She put a hand on his shoulder. "It was good, Harry. It was…"

Harry continued to study the ground. They'd paused just outside the front door, and he could hear the boisterous sounds of the large family inside. With a deep breath, he said quietly, "He was like that. He was a symbol, to me, sometimes… more than he was a real person." He looked up at Tonks, and found understanding in her keenly intelligent eyes. "He was what I could have had."

"I'm sorry, Harry," she said, and squeezed his shoulder. They took a moment, where Harry cleared his throat and scrubbed his hair, before they both turned to face the door. Tonks gave it a sharp rap, and it opened, spilling out light and warmth and a jumble of noise and ginger-haired faces. "Harry!" went up the general exclamation.

"Wait, wait, wait," Molly put up her hands. "Tonks, password?"

"Oh shove it, Mum!" shouted Ron from the back, and Harry found himself engulfed in a tight hug by someone quick and brown-haired.

"Oof! Hello, Hermione," he grunted, amused.

She stepped back, fighting between a joyful smile and a scolding frown, and shook him by his upper arms. "Stop getting into so much trouble, Harry!"

"I don't _try_ to," he retorted.

"Hey mate," Ron greeted, smacking him in the shoulder. "Hope you're done lazing about! We've got some serious work to do, involving brooms."

Harry laughed, already looking forward to all the Quidditch they were going to play, and all the good food he was going to eat. He didn't even mind the chores he was likely to receive, or the games of chess he was going to lose. Everyone piled into the doorway to greet him, minus an absent Arthur and of course Percy. Finally Molly had to shoo them all inside so she could close the door against the rain that had started to fall outside.

Later that evening, after a huge supper in which Harry was obliged to eat much more than he usually would, he and Ron and Hermione trooped upstairs to hide out in Ron's room. It was just as cluttered and orange as Harry remembered, except this year the tank in the corner was full of— "_Brains_?" Harry exclaimed upon spotting them. Indeed, propelling themselves around rocks and bits of seaweed like a pair of bizarre jellyfish, the two brains seemed perfectly content in the old fish-tank.

"Er, yeah," Ron said, scrubbing the back of his neck. "I was told they're useless to the Department of Mysteries now… since it seems they've imprinted on _me_. Like a pair of bloody baby birds or something."

"Well, you know what they say," Harry said, trying unsuccessfully not to snigger. "Three heads are better than one."

"They say that, do they?" Ron asked sarcastically.

Harry noticed Hermione was regarding the little brains with an expression of dismay tinged with envy, and he privately thought they had been wasted on Ron… whatever it was that they did. "So, what do they _do_ exactly?"

"Nothing very useful," Ron admitted with a grimace. "Like to chime in, sometimes, with their opinions on pretty much anything you can imagine."

"Out loud?" Harry asked, perking up in morbid amazement.

"No," Ron said, ears turning red with discomfort. "I feel like a bloody nutter, you know. Hearing voices…" he shook his head sadly.

"Preaching to the choir, mate," Harry said, patting him on the shoulder.

"Good point," Ron said, and actually seemed to take strength from that.

"So what's been going on with you, Harry?" Hermione asked, looking worried but trying to hide it. "Your letters have been frightfully vague."

"All right, but not a word of this to anyone, you guys," Harry said, casting a glance at the door and shifting into a more comfortable position. "The first thing is—and this is what I was writing you about, Hermione—well… my magic is… there's something wrong with it." He hesitated, watching their faces slowly freeze up, and considered maybe it would be better not to tell them. He growled, raking his fingers through his hair. "Basically, I've been, like… breaking things and setting things on fire without meaning to."

"Like… wild magic?" Ron asked, watching him.

"Yeah, except it's less… random. It's like I'm loosing control of it or something. In a fight, when I can get focused, it doesn't really happen, but when I feel strong emotions, stuff gets destroyed. At least, I think that's the cause. It's mostly just when I'm angry. Well, I haven't really felt any strong emotions _except_ anger since… you know, so…." He trailed off, and glanced up hopefully at Hermione.

She looked pensive, frowning and chewing her lip. "I… that sounds strange. It can't be—I mean, you're already a wizard, with a wand and training, so…." She brightened. "Have you looked up any magical maladies? I've heard—"

"Yeah," Harry cut her off, feeling his disappointment like a building pressure. "I've checked illnesses, and old age, and just about every book on Squibs I've been able to find…"

"And you checked at Hogwarts?"

He nodded, feeling like his blood was draining out of him. If _Hermione_ was grasping at straws…

"Could be just growing pains, mate," Ron suggested quietly, trying to sound optimistic. "You know, I heard a wizard's capacity never stops growing…kind of like your nose, or your ears, right?"

Harry gave him a steady look. "Have you ever heard of anything like _this_?"

"Well, no," Ron admitted. "Doesn't mean it hasn't happened before. Wizards and witches have been around for a really long time, you know."

Hermione latched on to that thread. "I'm sure there's _someone_ who knows, Harry. It's just not possible that you're the first one."

Harry twisted his mouth, hating that answer, but admitting to himself that it was probably true. It didn't tell him anything, though, except that he was being stupid for thinking maybe his was the very first case. "Yeah, you're probably right."

"Just be careful, Harry," Hermione told him, brow furrowed, and Ron nodded in silent agreement. "Try not to get too angry about anything."

Harry blew out an irritated sigh. "Not exactly something I can control, Hermione."

"It _is_, Harry, it just takes practice. You've got to have an iron will," Hermione insisted. "Imagine if Dumbledore lost his temper all the time! We'd probably all be dead by now."

Harry took in her earnest expression, and tried to imagine Dumbledore raging out of control. After fighting the old man's double, it wasn't as difficult to imagine as he might have liked, and the idea made the hairs on his arms stand up. Maybe Hermione was right. Maybe he should work harder at self-control. He shook his head, looking down at his hands. Of course it always came back to himself. It was up to him to succeed or fail.

"Uh, Harry," Ron said, interrupting his train of thought. Harry looked up to see his friend closing his eyes in a grimace. "One of the brains is insisting I tell you that you have pretty eyes. And… the other one thinks you look like a puff."

"All right, Ron," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "So how much of that was actually just you being a git?"

"No, really—" Ron said hastily, glancing over to the tank where the two brains were, indeed, rather avidly staring out—apparently disregarding their own lack of eyeballs. "One of them fancies you, and the other one is jealous, I think… And the way they're both screaming 'no!' makes me think I'm right. Bloody hell."

"I thought they both fancied _you_, Ron. Isn't that the whole problem?" Harry asked pointedly, feeling mildly disturbed.

"Harry," Hermione interrupted, directing their attention back. "You said that was the first thing. What else has happened?"

Harry sighed, and launched in to a brief story about the confrontation at the Dursleys. Hermione squeaked at the idea of him fighting Dumbledore's doppelganger, and he carefully glossed over how he finished the fight. When it came time to tell them how he'd escaped the four wizards in pursuit, he hesitated.

"Go on, mate," Ron prodded. "What happened then?"

Should he really tell them this? It sounded like he'd been smacked one too many times in the head, even when he rehearsed the story to himself. He hemmed and hawed and tried to think of some other explanation—_any _other explanation. It didn't even have to be very reasonable; anything would sound more likely than the truth. A small voice in the back of his mind told him he could just prove it, but another irrational part feared that it might not work this time. Or what if it really all _had _been in his mind? The only other time he'd attempted it, he did recall being pretty high on painkillers. Finally, after sitting with his mouth open for quite a while, he said, "I managed to get into the trees, and lost them."

Hermione wilted slightly, and he could see by the sadness in her eyes that she knew he was lying, and that she didn't understand why. Ron, however, scoffed and said, "Well that _is_ a bit anti-climatic."

Harry snorted, but it was in relief rather than any real amusement. "Next time I'll try to make up a better ending."

Ron brightened, smacking him in the shoulder. "So you beat McGonagall in a duel!"

Harry paused. She'd been under the Imperius curse. Or at least a _variation_ of it, as Dumbledore had said. Harry frowned at that, thinking it an odd way of phrasing things. There were variations on the Unforgivables?

Regardless, he didn't really think she'd been at her full capacity. She hadn't even transfigured anything but the floor, and Harry had always imagined she'd fight a bit like the Headmaster did, since they both specialized in the same discipline. It seemed strange, but she might have just been doing the things she was told to do, after all.

Maybe whoever was pulling the strings was a shoddy duelist. Maybe she wasn't even supposed to kill him, or capture him. Maybe the intent had been something else entirely, that Harry hadn't thought of yet.

But then why use McGonagall, and why have her appear as Dumbledore? He shook his head. "I don't know if I'd put it that way…"

Hermione finally laughed. "But Ron would, and that's why you're Harry and he's Ron."

"Come on Harry, admit it! You kicked McGonagall's shriveled, pruny—"

"_Ron_!" Hermione cut in, aghast.

"Well, she's _old_, Hermione. Even if she moisturized—"

"Ron!" Harry interrupted this time, reeling from unwanted mental images. "Shut up!"

Ron put up his hands in a gesture of defeat, and said sullenly, "Anyway, all I'm saying is you live an exciting life, Harry. Death Eaters in Diagon Alley, a crazy duel at your house, and you escape without a scratch after bagging and tagging our Professor. And now you're living at Hogwarts while your idiot family is missing… Your life is completely barmy, Harry."

Harry felt a bubble of hysteria trying to surface, and suppressed it. "You don't know the half of it, mate—"

A knock on the door brought Harry up short, and they all turned as Molly poked her head in. "Harry, dear, Dumbledore's just arrived, and he was wondering if he might have a word."

"Thanks Mrs. Weasley," Harry said, and she gave him a smile before ducking back out. As he descended the stairs, his thoughts were occupied with trying to figure out how to broach the subject of parallel worlds to his two best friends. He found Dumbledore waiting just outside the front door. "Hello, Professor."

"Hello, my dear boy," the Headmaster responded, smiling down at him fondly.

Harry remembered that Tonks had told him Dumbledore had been called away at the last minute earlier in the evening. He'd assumed it had been something rather dire. "So whatever you were doing tonight, I'm guessing it went well?"

"Quite well, I'm happy to report," the older man assured him. "There is, however, something I'd like to discuss with you, Harry. Would you mind taking a walk with me?"

"All right," Harry agreed, wondering what this could be about that he couldn't discuss it in front of the Weasleys. Perhaps it had something to do with the Prophecy, he reasoned. His stomach flipped unpleasantly.

Molly smiled at them as they stepped outside into the muggy evening. It had long since stopped raining, and the clouds overhead seemed to only hold the heavy air closer. It was getting dark already, and lights were winking on in the nearby village, visible here and there through the trees that bordered the makeshift Quidditch pitch.

"So what's up, Professor?" Harry asked as their footsteps crunched on the gravel drive. A rooster—the last one still about, it seemed—paced them from the fringe of grass, as if trying to decide whether they might be easy prey.

"Ah, well, primarily I wanted to make sure you had made it safely to the Burrow. Arthur tells me Ron has been very much looking forward to your stay with them."

Harry nodded. His thoughts traveled back to Hogwarts and all that was happening in his absence. "But it's only for the week, right?"

Dumbledore looked down at him with surprise. "I had imagined so, yes, but I am rather amazed that you seem to share my preference."

Harry shrugged, looking away. "I have things to do. It's nice to visit, but…"

"I understand, Harry," Dumbledore said easily. He pulled a little tin from inside his robes and popped it open. "Lemon-drop?" he offered.

Harry squinted up at him bemusedly. "You're in a much better mood, today, Professor."

Dumbledore smiled at him, and selected a candy for himself before tucking the tin away. "And why shouldn't I be, my dear boy?"

Harry's smile became rather forced at the endearment. "You've just been pretty tired and preoccupied the last week, is all."

"Ah, well. Life is short. I know I cannot fix everything, and it doesn't do to dwell."

This sounded unlike something Dumbledore would normally say. If anything, the Headmaster suffered from trying to do everything himself. Maybe he had finally realized that he _could_ trust others to get the job done. Harry thought it was ironic that it had taken the old man so long. But—

"_Protego!_" Harry shouted, and his shield flashed into existence a split-second before a stunner splashed across it.

"Oh, good show, Harry," the faux-Dumbledore sneered. "It seems you _are_ learning."

Harry dodged the next curse, and returned fire with a bludgeoning hex. "Professor McGonagall, is that you?" he appealed breathlessly.

The imposter laughed outright. "Do you really think it matters?" He cast something strange, a wobbling jet that seemed to warp the air around it. "Do you really think we can't get to everyone close to you, Harry Potter?"

Harry erected a slab of earth and skittered sideways, watching wide-eyed as the imposter's spell sheared off dirt and stone before howling away into the fields behind them.

Harry swore, casting a Reducto that ripped up the road like a small land mine. The imposter's wand flashed, deflecting most of the debris away, and Harry used the distraction to send a bright red flare toward the Burrow.

"Ah-ah-ah," the old man scolded through the wafting dust. "I've learned a few things too, Harry Potter."

In the flare's sharp illumination, Harry suddenly spotted three more figures closing in, pushing through the tall grasses—

"_Incendio!" _Harry shouted, sweeping his wand in an arc. Fire ignited briefly all around him, but the fields were too wet, and were soon billowing smoke. He deflected another stunner from the doppelganger, dodged a hail of curses from the three now stepping over the smoldering barrier—

Harry cast a bubblehead charm on one, trapping the smoke inside and sending the man coughing to the ground, turned to the next—

"Gotcha," he heard from behind, just before a wave of stinging hot and cold needles washed over him, his legs gave out, and the world went black.

* * *

"_Harry Potter_…"

Harry twitched. His cheek slipped in something slimy, and he realized he'd been drooling. His eyes didn't seem to want to open, and when he finally forced them, they burned. His whole body ached, and his mouth and eyes were dry, as if someone had rubbed his face in salt and then stuck him in a smoker.

The voice spoke again. "I just wanted to invite you to a little party…"

He blinked, trying to bring his surroundings into focus, but they refused. He realized he was missing his glasses. The only details he could make out were that the place was dim, with a slightly reddish cast that reflected off a jumble of long, straight lines. Like pipes, maybe. And the floor was metal, but it was faintly warm. A dull thrumming filled the room and waves of hot air rolled over him. It smelled faintly of mechanical grease and something else… it was familiar, but he couldn't put a finger on it.

He wouldn't have been able to put his finger on anything anyway—he was tightly bound and lying on his right side, which was numb in a way that told him he'd been in this position for quite a while.

Footsteps rang on the floor, a slow methodical pace. Boots entered his blurry vision, stopping near his face. "I must say, you haven't been very good company, my dear boy," the man went on, voice trembling with restrained amusement. His accent was strange—it was almost like the absence of one, as if the man had come from nowhere. "Damn near unresponsive, in fact." The voice giggled quietly.

Harry tried to speak, but his words hitched in his throat and he coughed. Once he'd started, he couldn't seem to stop, and his ribs and stomach were aching by the time he could catch another burning breath.

"I'd imagine you must be rather _thirsty_," the voice suggested. "Two days in the engine room will do that." The boots rocked up onto their toes as the man crouched beside Harry. "To be honest, I rather forgot you were down here." More laughter.

Harry grit his teeth. He'd been knocked out for two days? At least that long—the man only said he'd been in _this_ room for two days. Harry finally managed to force a sound out of his raw throat. "Where?" _am I_, he meant to say, but his voice ran out.

Abruptly, a hand smacked his face. "Ah-ah-ah, Harry. It's no fun if I have to tell you."

Harry flinched away, and felt a moment of wild anger. _Accio wand_!

He could feel his hands—they were bound tightly behind him—but his wand did not slap into his palm as it should have.

"Why don't you try to guess, hm?" the voice suggested.

Come on, Harry thought. Come on! _Accio!_

The man shifted, poking him in the cheek with a gloved finger. "Hm. You are disappointingly dull, Harry Potter. I find myself overestimating you, it seems."

Harry thrashed away from the finger, feeling the rage boil in his stomach. The bonds were unimaginably tight, and they only seemed to tighten further as he strained against them. He twisted, panting, and his limbs sprang alive with pins and needles. "_Rraaagh_!" he snarled in frustration. It was like swallowing glass, and for a moment he saw red. "Who are you?"

The man's only response was a low, smooth chuckle, quite unlike the barely restrained laughter from before. The boots stepped away, and Harry saw a flash of red light before he blacked out.

* * *

The next time he awoke, he was no longer in the engine room.

The lamps were turned low, but there _were_ lamps. There were Persian rugs and heavy silk drapes, a masterfully worked chandelier, and furniture of exquisitely carved wood with gold leaf and velvet upholstery. There was a stately bed with an intricately embroidered golden spread, and a mountain of decorative pillows, beneath rich hangings. The room was so unexpectedly exquisite that Harry wondered for a moment if he'd simply imagined the whole thing.

But no, he was sitting slumped on the floor, and his hands were bound from behind to a thick wooden column that sprang inexplicably from the middle of the room. Not to mention the hollow, gnawing ache in his gut that made him want to curl over and die. He figured his last meal must have been several days ago. That, and he still felt as if he'd been wrung inside out, salted, and then swung about by his head.

At least now he was wearing his glasses. And at this point things could hardly—_No, don't tempt fate, Potter_. It would do him no good to jinx the situation.

He craned his head, trying to get a good look out the windows behind the drapes, but all he could tell was that it was dark outside. There were no lights out there; it was pitch black.

He growled, leaning back to bang his head once on the post. "Bloody…" he tightened his lips, baring his teeth, and thought of about a million dirty curses and couldn't settle on just one. Maybe if he got angry enough, he could set this beautiful room on fire.

Just then, the door cracked open, flooding the floor with light. "Hey, he's awake!"

Harry's countenance darkened as he recognized the voice of his jailor. The sounds of many people talking and laughing floated in from the hall outside, accompanied by the scent of rich food and the sound of distant music. Several figures trailing behind the man paused when he spoke quietly to them, before dispersing.

The man stepped into the room, but his appearance was disguised by the light behind him, and all Harry could see was that he was tall and slender, with short hair and a top hat, and that he was wearing some kind of long dress coat.

"You don't look so hot, Junior," the man said, leaning over him patronizingly, as one might a dog. "Let's take you out for a bit of fresh air, hm?"

Before Harry could so much as curse at him, the man had whipped out his wand to cast a silencing charm, before levitating Harry to an upright position a few inches above the floor. The bindings on Harry's hands briefly unwound themselves from the column, but Harry could only twitch his shoulders forward before they had retied behind him.

The man stepped closer, murmuring, "See, I want you to be able to look around, so petrifying you won't work at all. This way you can kick and scream all you want, and nobody will hear you. And they won't see you, either," he added, and Harry could hear the smirk in his voice. The feeling of cold water running down the back of his neck made him jerk, and he knew he'd been Disillusioned.

"Follow me," the man said with a tilt of his head. Harry thrashed powerfully, but since he couldn't reach the floor, he simply floated gently along, kicking up air, out into the bright hall. It was infuriating.

"_Vidiscio,_" the man muttered, pointing his wand at his own face. When he glanced back at Harry, his face blurred, even though Harry could see everything else sharply. "You're rather a rather precocious child, mydear boy. A man can't be too careful."

_Too right_, Harry thought viciously. He might not be able to see the man's face, but he could see his build, and the curly, light brown hair poking from beneath the brim of his hat. He could see the weathered lines in the slightly browned skin, and the jut of the angular cheekbones and jaw. He would know this man if he saw him.

"Well," the man said, spreading his arms as if he were a tour guide. "As you see, this happens to be one of several dozen guest wings. The total count exceeds five hundred rooms. The wings are distinguished by door numbers, and color. This is obviously the Emerald wing." And indeed, the walls of the long, elegant hallway were a rich, dark green.

The man began to walk in long, smooth strides, and Harry was compelled to float along behind him like some kind of ridiculous balloon. Silencing charm or no, he couldn't believe no one heard his teeth grinding.

There were a few people in the hall—opulent, richly dressed people. There was a beautiful lady in crimson robes, and an austere young man in pale green. And there, another at the end of the hallway: an older man in black robes and pearly undercoats. All of them nodded warmly at Harry's captor, and none of them seemed to notice Harry. He wondered why they didn't look askance at the man's blurry face, but then remembered _Vidiscio_ mentioned in one of the early chapters of the_ Auror's Starter Companion_—it was a spell that allowed people who knew you to see you, and people who didn't, couldn't. They must all have known the man. _Another mistake, _Harry thought darkly. _Not many people here could possibly be familiar to everyone. I'll find you._

The end of the hallway opened up into a spectacularly extravagant ballroom, complete with gaudy mould-work around the high ceiling, and capping the marble columns. The center of the ceiling was painted with a monstrous, bile-inducing mural depicting wizards and witches cavorting with all sorts of fantastical creatures. A ridiculously large chandelier hung from the center, but rather than candles, its many golden branches held brightly glowing globes like tiny suns.

The room was full of people, spinning and gliding over the marble floor, talking and laughing near long, narrow tables of painstakingly arranged food and pyramids of crystal glasses, and dancing to the music performed by the small orchestra in one corner. Harry stared at them all, and wondered what kind of place this was, that so many wealthy and beautiful people came to stay, and yet here he was, being held captive in the very next room.

"The Captain's Ballroom," his captor murmured helpfully. "If you think this is a crowd, you haven't seen anything yet."

_Like I really give a damn_, Harry wanted to shout. He wanted to reach forward, get a good grip on the man's collar, and thrash him around. He wanted to beat him with his bare hands.

But they sedately glided on, through the crowds, and down a wide, golden hall with a long crimson carpet. It seemed to be a main thoroughfare; there were many people walking in the same direction as Harry and his captor, and many large halls off to either side, full of people eating, or gambling, or watching shows on darkened stages.

There were house-elves moving among them all, carrying trays and delivering food and drink. Several looked up at him, eyes widening slightly, but they all put their heads down and went on. Harry couldn't help a welling despair at this, but then he supposed that maybe the sight of a bound, floating, disillusioned young wizard wasn't so unusual here.

"The cream of the wizarding world," the man told him, indicating the crowds. "The upper echelons of magical society from every corner of the globe—at least, all the right sort. You might have gotten an invitation yourself if you were a bit older, Harry Potter."

Harry, of course, did not respond. The people werecolorful, even for wizards. There was a woman with dark skin and angular features, with a vibrantly plumed bird on her shoulder. There was an old man with slanting eyes and long, white mustaches, wearing opulent yellow silk. There was a group of young men with black stripes across their eyes and bones through their ears and noses. Witches who were clearly Arabic mingled with wizards who appeared to be Latino, and Englishmen in black waistcoats laughed with Tibetans in orange robes. There was a tall, blond fellow who looked almost exactly like…

Lucius.

_Lucius!_

_No_, it was impossible! Harry struggled, his bonds digging into the flesh of his wrists as he tried to break free. Lucius Malfoy was supposed to be locked up in Azkaban, and yet here he was, bold as brass and laughing as if he'd never even gone. Harry wanted to howl at the top of his lungs, but nothing came out of his mouth. He was so close! Just a few feet away—he was right _there_, the bloody bastard—and Harry lunged with all his might. God _dammit_, he wanted to destroy the man for all that he'd done.

The sound of quiet, mocking laughter wrenched his attention around, and he refocused his rage on the man who held him captive and completely helpless. Harry's vision hazed as he trembled, veins blazing with white-hot wrath. But there was nothing he could do, nothing to lash out at, and it only made him that much more furious. Champagne glasses shattered around him, the lights flickered, and people looked up in alarm.

But the man was still laughing, wiping a tear from his eye, and as quickly as Harry's rage had built, it drained away. There was nothing he could do. He was weak, and useless. He didn't even know where he was. Lucius Malfoy soon drifted out of sight in the crowd, and Harry slumped in defeat.

The wide hallway eventually opened out into a room that was in actuality a massive sphere. Around the span of the sphere's equator was a long balcony upon which throngs of witches and wizards sat at little tables. The room was dimmed, save for the low lamps around the balcony's edge, the faintly pulsing lines of longitude around the dome, and the ethereal light cast from the center of the sphere.

Harry couldn't quite identify the creature that twisted and spun there, glowing and shimmering in brightly shifting colors. Its long trailing fins were as exquisitely patterned as any butterfly's, leaving crackling sparkles in their wake, and its long, scaled body glinted as it moved. The longer Harry looked, the less it seemed like a performance, and the more it seemed as if the creature was struggling against an invisible barrier.

"Chinese river spirit," his captor informed him, before they turned from the mesmerizing sight toward a pair of wrought iron doors. "My apologies, precious boy, but we've got to descend a few levels to get where we're going. You see, I haven't told you this, but—" he pushed one door open to reveal an old-fashioned lift. Harry was levitated in after him, and received another disconcerting look at the man's blurry face. The doors clanged shut, and the lift shuddered into movement. Harry noted that there were five floors, and an additional level called 'B', and that they were currently on the fourth. The lift rattled on past third, before shuddering to a stop on the second floor.

"The thing is," the man continued as if he'd never stopped, "You're going to be participating in tonight's entertainment event. Can't have any freeloaders aboard, can I? Just to forewarn you—it might get a little bit _death_y. But fear not, for I have faith in you!" A white smudge amidst the blurred features told Harry that the man was grinning widely.

_Aboard_? Harry felt that he was on the edge of comprehension, if only he could remember…

They moved out into the hall, and the difference on this level was striking. It was not luxurious at all; in fact, the hall was built entirely of dark, aged timber, and the lamps that hung from the ceiling were old and plain. There was grime in the corners, and the crossbeams and supports were open and bare like an exposed skeleton.

"I was saying to myself, I wonder if dear Harry's ready to go out there? And I decided you'd been softened up enough—not too much, but just enough to make things… _interesting_. And the beauty of it is that anyone who _might_ have been in attendance to _care_ one way or the other is currently running all over the country, beating the bushes looking for you!"

As if on a passing whim, the man lifted Harry's silencing charm while they walked down the deserted hallway. Immediately, Harry asked, "Whyare you doing this, you son of a bitch?"

The man threw back his head and gave a loud, hearty laugh. "Oh, because I want everyone to know how easy it is! Because it amuses me!"

"Why me? What did I do to you?"

The man's laughter trailed off abruptly in an impatient grunt, and he silenced Harry again. "You're just _boring_, Harry Potter. Maybe I'll allow you to speak again later. Spend the time you have left thinking of more interesting things to say."

Harry grit his teeth, and turned his thoughts to escape. Wherever his captor was taking him, it didn't sound like it would improve his chances. If Lucius was here, did that mean Voldemort was as well? Did Harry's captor work for him? But then, if Voldemort was so close, wouldn't Harry be feeling the proximity through his scar? Did this mean it was someone else again—some copycat faction?—or perhaps it was simply someone doing the Dark Lord's bidding?

Harry mentally growled. Thinking only raised more questions. He needed a solution, not more problems. How was he going to get out of this? He didn't have a wand, and at the moment he had no way of getting his captor's either. Hopefully whatever this 'entertainment' was would afford him some freedom of movement.

He'd been in worse situations—but at least then he'd understood the motivations at play.

They began to pass long adjoining hallways, with wide doors and heavy bars. The sounds coming from those hallways were hair-raising; piteous moans or mumblings, deep panting growls, heavy shuffling, or inquisitive snorting.

_Merlin, what is this place?_ Harry wondered for the umpteenth time since he'd woken up.

The ceiling above them began to rumble and shake, and little runnels of dust fell from the rafters. The man chuckled and commented, "Either someone just died, or they managed to kill their opponent. Bloodthirsty crowd, you know."

Harry swallowed, staring upwards.

"Excited? I daresay you'll get a good look at them soon enough, Harry Potter."

The hallway broadened, and to their left side, massive lifts began to appear, and with them, wizards and witches in uniforms; grim looking people who stood at attention, or patrolled the aisles of barred doors with predatory focus. They all began to move about when something clattered above, and light poured down two of the lifts. Harry was just being maneuvered into a big doorway at the end of the walk when he caught sight of a stumbling, heavily bloodied man fall out of one lift, and the massive corpse of a grayish cat thump down from the other.

Then the door was closing behind him, and his feet found contact with the floor. It was so shocking that his legs buckled, and he fell to his knees. A warm trickle down the back of his neck told him that the disillusionment charm had been lifted, and two dozen pairs of eyes that had been staring at his captor now shifted quickly to him.

"Harry Potter, hero of the Wizarding World," his captor introduced him, before shoving him forward and clapping an iron manacle over his left wrist. Then he patted Harry roughly on the cheek, removed his magical bonds, and left without another word.

Harry stared back at all of them. They were a ragged looking bunch of men and women, all slouched on the rough benches that lined the walls of the long, narrow room, each similarly bound by iron. The only light came from high up in the raftered ceiling, where the left side seemed to be made of grillwork that let in light and the sound of a roaring crowd from the level above. The scent of sweat and blood and piss assailed his nostrils, and he knew that these people were waiting to die.

A long moment passed before Harry asked, "So how did you all end up here?" He was wondering if they'd all been abducted for various reasons like he had.

They exchanged glances among themselves, before one spoke up. "Well I killed me grandmum, Mister Potter."

Another man nodded. "I knocked over a bank in Dublin; killed two o' the muggle tellers."

"I Imperiused my boss."

"I used the cruciatus on my neighbor's dog… and then my neighbor."

One young woman shouted, "I burnt down most of my college!"

"So," Harry began, and most of them fell quiet again. "So you're all criminals?"

"Aye," went up the general answer. One older man in the front added bitterly, "The lower security wing in Azkaban. The Warden there cut a deal wif the captain of this ship fo' the use of our 'services.'"

"Ship. This is a _ship_?" It all clicked into place. So this was the Galloping Galleon. Nasty wizards, indeed.

"Well what didja think it was when you stepped on board, Mr. Potter?" snarked another man.

Harry moved to sit on the end of the bench. "I never saw the outside… I was… brought."

"Aah," said several sagely, and Harry took it to mean that they'd once been in the abduction business.

He scrubbed a hand through his stiff, dark hair. Bloody hell. How could a place this size be a ship? And if they were out in international waters, as he now suspected, how the hell was he going to get away without knowing how to Apparate?

The door opened with a clang, and Harry was on his feet and moving before his brain had a chance to catch up. The manacle and chain brought him up short, causing the guards outside to laugh. A man was shoved inside, and the door slammed shut again. It was the man Harry had seen in the lift; he was now covered in bandages, and looking slightly more steady on his feet.

"I drew the nundu," he slurred, shuffling forward. A good number of the criminals cheered, and Harry assumed they were all glad it hadn't been them. After a moment, he moved to help the man sit, and the man accepted his arm gratefully.

"How did you beat it?" Harry asked.

The man looked up, and Harry realized he could not be much more than ten years older than Harry was. His dark brown hair curled over his ears and low over his brow, and his gray eyes were intense. "You're new," he said.

Harry nodded, waiting.

The man offered one heavily bandaged hand. "Toliman Hughes."

Harry shook it. "Er, Harry Potter."

"Really?" Toliman said with an amused glint in his eye.

"You don't believe me."

"Harry Potter does not strike me as the kind of person who would ever find himself in the belly of the bloody _Galloping Galleon_ surrounded by thieves and murderers."

"To be honest, neither do you."

The man sat back, raising an arm. He flexed, and suddenly the limb burst from its wrappings, rippling with thick fur and muscle, and claws the length of butter knives. "Grizzly bear animagus. I killed some rather expensive horses." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "And their riders."

Harry leaned away slightly. "I guess that answers my first question."

Toliman nodded amiably, and his forearm transformed back into human flesh. "A bit of advice; if you ever plan on going for the transformation, be mindful of your surroundings before you attempt it. Also, don't do what I just did."

Harry cocked an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"It's really hard on your body."

"Then why did you do it?"

Toliman shrugged and smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Because I don't really care, do I?"

Harry just raised his other eyebrow.

Toliman's smile widened at Harry's disbelief. "This is the one time a year that I'm allowed out of Azkaban. I've been a prisoner there for four years. Have you ever dealt with a dementor?"

"Yeah, once or twice… but not the way you probably have…"

Toliman cocked his head slightly. "Well, there you go. I don't imagine I'll live a very long life in a place like that. These other poor sods here? They're low security inmates. I'm mid-security. I don't want to go back there. I'd rather spend the rest of my days fighting for my life here than to go back in that cell."

Harry felt a chill go up his spine, imaging Sirius spending all those years in a high security cell. "So you don't care about your life?"

The young man just shrugged again. "Doesn't seem to matter whether I plan for the future. So I won't. I sometimes think… well, good people don't lock up other people with those creatures. Good people wouldn't do that."

Harry could only nod, looking down at his feet. For some reason he felt responsible for the dementors. As if by being on the side opposing Voldemort, he was siding with the Ministry—as if, by not opposing _them_, he was advocating their decisions. Did he have that responsibility? Was he supposed to fight against both sides?

Toliman went on, bitterly. "Makes me think joining You-know-who wouldn't be all that horrible—he can hardly be worse than the bastards who decide to throw people in with those monsters."

Harry bit down on a surge of anger. "Don't say that to me."

Toliman looked up at him, frozen between bemusement and annoyance. "And what would you have me do, then, _Harry Potter_? From where I sit, there are no good people left in our world! Just those who have power, and those who have nothing!"

"That's because you're up in the nosebleeds and you can't see anything except for what colors people are wearing," Harry returned. "Maybe you should try doing what's right instead of finding someone else to tell you what to do."

"You really _are_ Harry Potter, aren't you?" Toliman muttered, amazed. He blinked, angry again. "You don't know whether you'll live past this. You don't know me. And even after hearing what I've done, you still want to recruit me?"

"I'm not recruiting you. And I think there's more to the story than what you've told me."

"Well, you're not wrong about that, at least." Toliman fell silent, frowning at the floor.

Harry sighed and turned his attention to the problem at hand. What was his plan now? He certainly didn't have an animagus form, and without a wand he was damn near useless in a fight. He could run pretty fast, but that was about it. He scowled bitterly. Maybe he should just die now; get it over with and save Voldemort and the rest of the bloody wizarding world the trouble.

Long minutes passed, and people were taken out and brought back as bleeding wrecks or not at all. Harry's level of anxiety slowly rose, and if it weren't for his stubborn resolve to think of a way out of this mess, he probably would have gone barking mad with nervous anticipation.

"Hey, Toliman," Harry finally said, when the crowd roared and another convict failed to return, "I'm no good without a wand."

Toliman, who seemed to be dozing off at this point, cracked one gray eye open. "Improvise."

"Improvise," Harry repeated. He was weak and lightheaded from lack of water and food, he didn't know what he would be facing, he couldn't win a physical battle to save his life, and he didn't have a wand. So what did he have? He had his creativity. Fat lot that would do for him. He had his anger—that was something he had in spades. But beyond lighting the occasional paper product on fire, he didn't see how that would do him any good.

Toliman was watching him, and must have seen the train of thought play out on his face, because he leaned forward quite suddenly. "Wizards are magical creatures, yes? How did you do magic before you had a wand?"

"Very randomly and sporadically," Harry admitted.

Toliman gave an impatient 'tch.' "I haven't had one in four years. You're telling me you can't do _anything_ without your bloody wand?"

Harry stared at him. "Well, I… I can summon. And banish things. That's about it, though."

But Toliman was nodding enthusiastically. "Good, good. That's a good start. That's more than a good start, actually. You can do a lot with just those two spells; think about it. What's the biggest thing you've ever moved?"

Harry remained focused on the other man, thinking and trying to ignore the treacherous optimism that had begun to rise in his stomach. "A stone wall. No—my living room ceiling, probably."

It was Toliman's turn to blink. "Whoa, for the hero of the wizarding world, you sure are a violent one."

Harry scowled at him. "Says the man-eating were-bear."

Toliman ignored him. "If you can move architecture, I'd imagine you'd have no trouble tossing around a few monsters."

"Does it matter if my wand is nearby or not?"

"No," Toliman scoffed, looking at him askance. "What are they teaching young people these days? Your wand isn't your source of power. It's just a focus."

Harry, who knew all of this in theory, had never been faced with the prospect of performing spells—battling, really—without his wand. He muttered several oaths and surreptitiously began summoning and banishing little bits of dirt. The minutes ticked by, the crowd thundered overhead, and Harry's level of anxiety continued to mount.

It was while he was methodically summoning all of the nails out of the planks by the door—a process that Toliman was watching with undisguised amusement—that his turn finally came. A guard came in half dragging the latest victim back to her place on the bench, before turning to Harry. "You're up, kid," he grunted.

Harry held himself very still. There was only one, and the door was still open just slightly. There were others outside, of course, but if he could get some momentum… The guard bent, releasing Harry's manacle with a tap of his wand.

Harry kicked the inside of the man's knee and banished his head. The guard gurgled, toppling back, and Harry followed. He banished a nail at the big man's arm, hoping to pin him there, and flew toward the door. Another was already stepping inside, looking annoyed.

Harry grit his teeth and sent a one-two combination his way—a banisher to the gut and a nail to his shoulder. The banisher doubled the new guard over, but the nail went wide. Harry used his momentum swing a kick for his face, but the man was too fast, and used the door as a shield.

Harry hit with his shoulder, knocking the man over, and slamming the door on his foot. Just as Harry whipped it open again to make a break for the hall, something heavy clubbed him in the back of the head. He slipped on the grimy floorboards, and a huge arm grabbed him around the throat. Harry shot an elbow backward into a solid mass, and suddenly the wall was hitting him in the face.

"Skinny son of a bitch!" snarled the man—the first one. Harry was jerked around, and his arms wrenched behind him. Harry looked back and saw the man's face was bloody, but the nail had missed.

"Guess I need to work on my aim," Harry wheezed, his own lip split and bleeding.

"Might help," Toliman said mildly, but his eyes were wide.

"Toliman," Harry said as his captor began to haul him to his feet. "My godfather told me something of his time in Azkaban." He hesitated, knowing he would be aiding a convicted criminal. Mind made up, he went on. "The dementors can't sense animals. It's how he escaped."

Toliman stared at him. "Who is your godfather?"

"Move, runt," growled guard number 1, wand pressed to Harry's throat.

"His name was Sirius Black," Harry said over his shoulder.

"Harry Potter." Toliman called, pointing a bandaged finger at Harry sternly. "I will be very disappointed if you die."

Empty handed but for the fist-full of nails in his pocket, and practically wrestled out the door, Harry muttered, "So will I."


	7. The Means

CHAPTER 7

Harry preceded the guard down the dimly lit hall, trying to ignore the wand-tip that danced up and down his jugular vein with every step.

_Obnoxious git. _

He wondered morbidly what creature he would have to face, and tried to ignore the faint sound of the announcer playing up the crowd. Harry had always been a spectacle to the magical world, it seemed, but never had he been faced with a situation that summed up his feelings about it so well. A fight to the death in the grand arena, while the innumerable masses looked on; they would be satisfied with either his victory _or_ his defeat, so long as blood was shed!

_What the hell did you do in your past life to deserve this kind of rubbish?_ Harry thought to himself in an accusatory fashion. It must have been particularly awful. Fighting monsters in front of a crowd was a cruel and unusual punishment if he'd ever heard one, and this wasn't even his first time at it.

The guard directed him to one empty lift with much jabbing and threatening glares, and he looked up to glimpse what seemed to be a starry sky through the crisscrossing planks. The other lifts were all empty, and he surmised that whatever he was facing was already waiting up there. The lift doors were pushed shut, and it began to ascend. The wooden grill above him parted, and what he'd taken for a real sky was in fact enchanted, much like the Great Hall at Hogwarts, and he could see the high rafters beyond. The light was coming from intense spotlights that sat upon the high timber wall around the massive field of sand—they were so bright that Harry couldn't quite see the crowd beyond.

But he could _feel_ them there, like an oppressive mass—they filled the towering stands, and the building crescendo of noise as he came into view was nearly enough to knock him over. A reverberating voice was recapping the last bout, and several witches and wizards were cleaning up what appeared to be entrails on the other side of the arena.

Harry stumbled as the lift clanked to a stop.

He stepped out onto the brightly lit sand, trying not to think too hard about the vibrant splashes of crimson here and there, and his gaze settled on the giant pen that was slowly rattling up from beneath the sand. His stomach flipped first with giddy recognition, followed by cold dread, when he realized what was inside the pen. Wooly Aurochs. There were wizards and witches circling the bars, shooting spells at the beasts, and Harry could tell even from this distance that they had been worked up into white-eyed fury.

He clenched his jaw. Those were not things to be fought. Those were things to be trampled under.

Much too soon, the handlers were scrambling for the stands, a horn blared, cage bars collapsed with a clang, and the aurochs herd charged the field. They were just too big, even for this giant stage, and their ground-eating strides would quickly close the gap between them and the only puny, two-legged tormenter they could reach.

"Aaah," Harry growled, and flashed into action. The sight of so many towering, thundering beasts bearing down on him lent speed to his legs, and he streaked away from the leader at a right angle, casting his hand out behind him in an attempt to banish the beast. The big bull faltered slightly, but didn't visibly slow down.

Oh, this was not going to work.

The sand was sucking at his feet, and the waves of particles cast up by the stampeding herd were pelting his back. _Knock them into each other_, he thought desperately. He was rounding the front of the charge, and they were having trouble quickly changing direction to follow.

"_Accio!_" he shouted, yanking hard. It was like grabbing on to something set in concrete. He felt his magic seize hold, but if he'd physically grabbed for it, he would have easily pulled his arm from its socket. He saw lights pop in front of his eyes, but his target still stumbled into a nearer beast, slamming into its shoulder.

Harry skidded to a stop and quickly dashed the other way, and chaos ensued. He flung his arms forward and again tried to _banish_ the leader. This time the beast put its head down sharply and slowed, as if it were trying to push through quicksand.

"_Accio!_" he panted again, this time pulling hard on an aurochs in the middle of the herd. It bellowed as it stumbled through the paths of several beasts, who at the same time were all smashing into the slowing front runners.

Harry dropped his arm, panting for breath, and the elephantine beasts began turning to face him, shaking their heavily horned heads. The leader moved quickest of all, turning in the sand like a monstrous dressage horse. He needed to slow them down; tire them out, before he even tried to do as he remembered Hagrid suggesting. As things were now, they wouldn't even notice that he was trying to expose his neck before they trampled him.

With a keening bellow, the lead bull reared slightly, twisting his head, and charged again. Every footfall of those tree-trunk limbs sent a tremor through the sand. Harry took off again before he could give in to his instinctual fear and freeze.

_Accio!_ he cast over his shoulder, pulling on one of those flashing forelegs, and the beast stumbled. The rest of the herd was milling, turning to focus on him, and he knew he didn't have much time before another full out charge began. They saw him as a threat, and if the spit foaming at their gray muzzles was any indication, they were still highly agitated.

His lungs were burning now, and his legs were quivering with each stride. He didn't have much left in him. He angled out slightly toward the rest of the herd, and then abruptly shot back in the opposite direction, so that he was between the herd and the bull.

The bull tried to intercept him, but couldn't turn quickly enough. Harry streaked past. At the point when the bull was most overbalanced, twisting around, Harry slid to a stop and poured everything he had into summoning the bull's left front foot, while banishing the right.

It was like trying to lift a car, and light exploded before his eyes. He swayed on his feet, while fifty feet away the towering beast went down in a shower of sand.

Harry lurched forward, heart hammering in his chest, while the bull thrashed, trying to get his hooves under him. Just as the aurochs managed his front feet, and was lowering his massive head to surge upward, Harry dropped to one knee before him and bowed, baring the back of his neck.

_God damn it, Hagrid, you'd better be right about this._

A gasp went up through the crowd, and the stadium went deathly quiet. For a long moment, all Harry could hear was the bull's heavy panting, and expected at any second to be brutally smashed into the ground. Then one hoof shifted in the sand, and Harry hazarded a glance upward. The bull's regal head was bowed low to the ground, scattering bits of sand with every breath. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw the rest of the herd doing the same. He could have collapsed from sheer relief, but he staggered to his feet instead. The bull aurochs rose as well, and plodded forward in slow, careful steps, to take in Harry's scent with his wide, moist snout.

Harry patted him shakily, mentally thanking Hagrid. His voice cracked as he said into the silence, "Good boy."

The crowd erupted with approval. The big beast startled slightly, and Harry saw his life flash before his eyes all over again.

And then the witches and wizards were swarming back on to the field, herding the aurochs back toward the other end and into the erected pen with short blasts from their wands.

Harry slumped as he watched the wooly aurochs descend slowly out of sight, relieved that he had survived, and more weary than he could ever remember being. With an effort, he stirred himself to listen to what the commentator was saying. "…seems that was hardly a challenge for this kid! Maybe we can rustle up something that'll really give him trouble, what do you folks think?"

The crowd roared from beyond the brilliant lights, and Harry felt his carefully shored up will begin to crumble.

He might have broken down right then and there, if it weren't for his stubborn pride. He wouldn't let them see any weakness, damn them all.

He straightened his spine, alone in the vast arena, and waited.

The heavy nails in his pocket were a comforting presence. He would actually have to use them this time—he didn't have the strength to run any more. Although he wasn't very confident in his aim. Maybe he should practice on the crowd, he mused viciously.

He couldn't understand what the purpose of all this was. Was it just to torture him? Was it all Voldemort's doing? Why not just kill him outright; why go through all this pageantry?

And where the hell was Voldemort, anyway?

"Idiot Dark Lord," he muttered, watching another of the lift shafts rattle open. This one at least looked small enough to contain one creature rather than a rampaging horde. Before he could start relaxing, the bellowing roar from the lift cage reminded him that optimism was for suckers.

The shape of the form that slowly rose above the sands was condemning enough. Its towering stature and rippling muscles were sharply reminiscent of a certain encounter from his first year. That was where the similarities to the cave troll ended however—this creature was not shambling or clumsy. Its skin was white—the opaque white of Aunt Petunia's good ceramics—covered in slicing, scooping pink scars, and its shoulders were loosely covered in shaggy off-white hair. It had two pitch-black, spiraling horns protruding from its heavy-browed skull, and a pair of flat yellow eyes.

And there was the most terrifying thing about this creature; it wasn't on a blind rampage or aimlessly wandering. It was focused and purposeful, and there was a ferocious cunning in those eyes. Harry immediately knew he was in trouble.

Well… _more_ trouble.

"…see how he fares against this beauty!" the announcer was saying. "You folks are looking at a rare and elusive Mountain Troll, of the Bhutanese subspecies—commonly misidentified as a Yeti. Those arms have a crushing capacity of nearly two thousand kilos—that's the bite force of a Welsh Green, ladies and gents!"

"Thank you, Mr. Announcer," Harry muttered, trying to remain calm. His whole body seemed ready to betray him, and his head was full of a high buzzing.

"You're welcome, young sir!" the announcer replied jovially. Harry winced, unaware that the man—and likely everyone else—could hear everything he said.

Wait—they could hear him.

"Hang on!" he shouted, before the announcer could speak again. "Just—hang on! I didn't sign up for this—"

"Regretting your decision to play already, kid?" the announcer replied, laughing as if Harry had made a rather good joke. The audience chuckled along, likely assuming it was all scripted. The man was either oblivious to the Galloping Galleon's inner workings, or he was being well compensated by Harry's captor. Cheerfully, the announcer boomed, "But you all didn't come to listen to us talk! Ladies and gentlemen, let's begin the next round!"

Harry thought the hollow clang that sounded as the cage went down would haunt his nightmares.

_Damn it,_ he thought, gritting his teeth. _Keep playing till you pass out or die, is that how this works? _The crowd roared.

For a long moment the white beast stood perfectly still, just watching him. Harry wracked his brain for any tricks or tips to dealing with trolls. He remembered Professor Quirrel had been reputed to have an affinity for the creatures, but thinking back to those first Defense classes, Harry recalled nothing that could help him here. Trolls weren't dark creatures—just big, dangerous, and more often than not, mistreated.

Nails, then. He eyed the creature's thick white skin, and didn't have much confidence.

As if in answer to his silent decision, the troll went from standing to sprinting in the blink of an eye.

A shot of adrenaline rushed up Harry's spine and he threw out his hands. Spots popped before his eyes, and the troll jerked sideways, smashing into the wall.

It felt for a moment as if the earth had dropped out from under him, and he stumbled. The troll bounced back as if it had just been a friendly pat, and was advancing again, though more warily.

Harry wondered if he had any running left in him.

The troll's yellow eyes missed nothing, easily picking up on his flagging strength. It surged in for the kill. Harry had time to take a step back—_too close!—_before it was upon him, swinging down with one giant fist.

Harry _pushed_ with all his might—if that strike connected, he was done, in more ways than one—and the world shifted dizzily. A second later, Harry realized with shock that he had pushed himself away instead, and tumbled to a stop nearly twenty feet from where he'd started.

The troll paused only a moment before it roared in anger and tore after him.

_Definitely time for nails_, Harry thought frantically, and tried to dig them out.

The troll was just too fast, and it seemed this time it was going to try and grab him rather than make the mistake of missing a strike. The image of a Welsh Green snapping down on his arm flashed before his eyes, and Harry twisted away just as his fingers finally closed on a nail.

The troll's other arm flashed toward him just as he spun around to face the creature. His heart jumped to his throat, and he threw the nail, banishing it with everything he could muster.

The four-inch long spike drove right through the troll's hand, and it gave an earsplitting bellow.

Harry skipped away from the next swing—the troll was loosing its temper, its movements increasingly frenzied.

Harry banished two more nails. They shot through the air with the force of a rail-gun, driving into the gleaming white of the troll's shoulder and bicep. The blackish blood running down its arm was shocking against the pale skin, but the injuries hardly seemed to do anything but make it angrier.

Harry ducked and dodged, but the troll still managed to clip his ear with one wild swipe, and he swallowed the explosion of sharp, nauseating pain. Stumbling, he pulled out two more nails, and sent them whistling toward the troll's feet, hoping to gain some distance.

They hit true, but the troll didn't even slow down.

Panic was worming its way up his throat, and he twisted in mid-stride to banish another nail over his shoulder. It impacted square between the troll's eyes, but to Harry's astonishment, it only went in part way, and the troll, though in obvious pain, appeared nowhere even close to dying.

It lunged, and Harry, though he pumped his muscles until they screamed, simply did not have it in him to outrun a mountain troll. The giant paw slammed into his lower back, and the next moment he was being driven into the ground by the full weight and momentum of the beast. His lungs emptied in a sharp rush, his face was being ground into the sand, and every bone in his body creaked with the stress—he was sure his spine would snap.

The next instant he was being drug by his leg across the ground, up into a wild arc, and violently launched into the air. He barely had time to register the wall that was speeding toward him at an alarming rate before his left shoulder crashed into it. Wood splintered beneath him, and he bounced off to collapse into the sand like a rag-doll.

It felt like an eternity passed before he was able to cough, taking in a lung full of air and spitting out a mouth full of blood. But in truth it was only a few seconds, and the sound of heavy feet told him the mountain troll was nearly upon him again.

He pushed himself to his hands and knees, already numbly digging into his pocket for another nail. Ice flooded his veins when he realized there was only one left. How could he stop the troll with one rusty nail when the others had done so little? It was hopeless, he'd tried everything—

Then the troll bellowed its rage, so close he could feel the spit of its exhalation—

No. This was not the end. He refused it.

He had friends to see, and things to do. He would not die here in the bloody sand to an audience of rich thugs. He wouldn't go out with his head down.

He rose to a crouch and, with the last scraps of his will, sent a banisher at the troll's head. It snapped sharply to the side. With a grunt, the great beast twisted in mid stride, and toppled. Harry breathed a quick prayer, and sent the last nail rocketing toward the base of the troll's skull.

The troll went down in a cloud of sand and dust, its momentum carrying it tumbling forward. Harry remained crouched, every nerve thrumming.

The crowd was similarly silent; they were all waiting with bated breath. Hope, buoyant and treacherous, kindled in him, and he let his shoulders relax infinitesimally.

Then, as if the universe were having a good laugh at his expense, the hulking shape gave a guttural rumble and slowly lurched to its feet.

Harry could only stare up at the hulking shape. As it took a step forward, Harry mentally threw up his arms.

That was it. He'd tried. He was out of ideas.

He began to chuckle helplessly, even as the troll lunged forward with a deep-throated snarl, taking him by the torso in one massive hand and slamming him into the wall. He felt his ribs crack with a nauseating sound; a series of muffled pops like snapping carrots, and a sudden flaming, constrictive pinching. But he didn't stop chuckling—though it hurt so badly that he was wheezing—until the troll's giant paw crushed against his throat.

It was then, with the troll's furious, craggy face and blazing yellow eyes so close to his own, that he saw his salvation. The nails were still there; the troll hadn't bothered to pull them out. Hope and dread warred within him; he knew how to finish this.

He tried to speak, but all that came out was 'ghk.'

To his amazement, the Troll lightened the grip on his throat, though its face remained contorted with rage. Harry knew that it must have hated every human with equal passion, and judging by its thickly scarred skin, it had good reason.

Harry took a deep rattling breath. "I don't want to kill you."

The troll blinked, its ferocious countenance going slack with surprise. Then, with an expression of perfect derision, it growled quite clearly, "Lucky for us, you not need worry."

The crushing grip redoubled, and Harry gagged as his windpipe closed down. _No_, he thought desperately. _Don't make me do this_. He struggled mightily, scrabbling with his hands against the ridiculous power of the troll. Anything but this. It didn't matter that he would die if he did nothing, and it didn't matter that this was a troll and not a human. He knew it had been a prisoner of humans, a mockery, a spectacle, and had every right to this anger. He wondered what he'd have become in its place. He didn't want to look into its eyes as he killed it.

He tried to convey a silent apology, even while he was being strangled. _It shouldn't be like this._

He summoned the nail in the back of its head at the same time he banished the one in its forehead. The troll's head jerked with a sickening squelch, and Harry watched the light go out of its eyes.

For a moment it seemed to stare back at him, as if in shock, before slowly crumpling to the ground. Without the grip holding him up, Harry dropped beside it, and fell to his knees. He could barely hear the roar of applause around him—it washed over and beyond him in a muffled buzz. He was trembling so hard it felt as if his bones would rattle apart.

He looked at the still form of the mountain troll, and couldn't help but think it was a waste. He looked around at the wide arena, the cheering crowds, and the beautiful charmed stars above. It was all a waste. His jaw clenched in bitter, hollow anger. If this was the way the wizarding world treated magical beings, it was no wonder they were all siding with Voldemort.

He tried to haul himself up, failed, and managed on the second attempt. The announcer was saying something inane about good triumphing over evil. Harry held out a hand and summoned the nail that had been imbedded in the troll's forehead. As it flew into his grip, hot with blood, he swore to himself that he would not forget this.

He took a step, and the world tilted crazily, rushing up to meet him. _Bugger,_ he thought, before the buzzing in his ears became too much to handle, and he slipped into oblivion.

* * *

Tonks perched on the kitchen counter and watched the Order slowly go mad. They were at the Burrow—Grimmauld Place was apparently still up for grabs—and Molly had chased her off the counter three times already, but there was nowhere else to sit that wasn't too far away to observe the proceedings.

It had been four—nearly five—days since Harry had disappeared from almost the very doorstep of the Burrow. The only people who knew it were currently in this house, or out on assignment trying to scrape up more information. The senior Order members—led by Dumbledore—had decided early on to keep this from leaking to the Ministry, on the grounds that whatever danger Harry was in now, it would only increase once it became public knowledge that he was no longer under any sort of protection.

They'd made the decision, of course, on the heels of Snape's revelation that, as far as he knew, You-know-who was not responsible for the abduction, and the Order didn't want to give the enemy any reason to go looking for Harry. Tonks found this so disturbing that she'd lain awake for hours trying to figure out who _else _wanted Harry dead—who else could manage to cause the Ministry and the Order so much trouble? And if You-Know-Who _wasn't_ responsible, then what the hell _was_ he doing with his time?

Without the Ministry's involvement, Tonks found herself able to contribute next to nothing beyond her status as a willing and able grunt, and she could hardly remember being so frustrated.

She thought this plan was foolish—utterly, and totally foolish. Even if the Ministry and the Order were not on the same page politically, they still needed to find Harry, and the mores eyes out, the easier it would be. Not telling people just made it all the more likely that they would miss him, right under their noses. But the Order had made a decision, which meant that while they were the only ones who knew, they were also the only ones who could do the work to find him.

She couldn't help the sting of annoyance she felt—she should have just kept Harry with her that day. He'd been perfectly fine before she left. He could have job shadowed her or something. She suddenly liked that idea, and made a point to offer it to him. _If_ they ever saw him again, she reminded herself bitterly. But he should have been safe here! This was the Burrow, for God's sake, the bloody headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix.

She shot another glance at the tense knot of people around the kitchen table. Dumbledore's presence seemed to tower over them all, even bent over a map as he was. This was too personal for him; Tonks knew the signs. Aurors got too emotionally involved in cases all the time; it was difficult not to when dealing with issues of such heavy moral impact. But Dumbledore wasn't an Auror, and Tonks knew that for all his age and wisdom, he'd didn't have the training for something like this. Not to mention how thinly spread he already was, between the Wizengamot, Hogwarts, and leading the Order against You-Know-Who—at this very moment he was supposed to be aboard that wizard ship, the Galloping Galleon.

Tonks thought he could have used the vacation, even if the old man probably would have used it for information gathering anyway. Did he ever even sleep?

She frowned as she looked at him. Although she'd never really had doubts about the old man's leadership before, she found herself assessing him, and her lack of confidence in the Headmaster was burrowing a pit in her stomach. If he was losing his grip on things, who would take his place? What would happen to the Order if he were ever lost? It hardly bore thinking about.

McGonagall was there too, looking particularly overwrought. Although, Tonks wasn't certain if this was a vestige of her own brush with being used against Harry, or the stress of the situation. They still hadn't fully puzzled out the tiny artifact that had been found on her. Tonks had seen it only briefly—a tiny, green and gold lacquered insect, driven by a spike through her ear—before it had been snatched away. It was probably now under intense study in the Department of Mysteries—or, just as likely, in the possession of Albus Dumbledore himself.

Molly sat nearby, looking drained and disconsolate. She probably couldn't stop thinking about how she had smiled and waved them out the door. She'd been the last one to see Harry. Tonks might have felt sympathetic if she weren't so screaming mad at the woman. Molly had been responsible for screening visitors, and she had simply let the disguised person waltz up and waltz away again with nary a confirmation of identity. It was Dumbledore, right? What else did you need to know?

Tonks simply couldn't imagine seeing someone playing as Dumbledore and not being able to tell that something was off. Although evidently Harry hadn't been able to tell this time either—at least until it was too late. She'd heard that by the time anyone had seen Harry's flare and ran outside, the abductors were already Apparating away.

Lupin and Snape were also hunched over the table. With uncharacteristic tact, Snape was helping with only occasional digs at Harry. Tonks kept a careful watch on him.

Aside from a long list of people who had nothing to do with the abduction, the only concrete information the Order had was that Arthur Weasley had also been missing for nearly five days. No one had seen him after he clocked off from work that evening, although several people had commented that he had been acting rather strange. Everyone feared the worst: that Arthur had been appropriated into service as another Dumbledore doppelganger. But he hadn't returned afterwards, which either meant he was still being used, he was being held, he was working under his own initiative, or he had outlived his usefulness. The despondent expression on every Weasley's face made it obvious what they all feared.

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, talking softly in the corner of the living room, looked even more distraught, if that was at all possible.

After all, they had no proof whatsoever that Harry hadn't been killed two days ago, and wasn't lying in a ditch somewhere, or floating down the river. If You-know-who didn't have him—and there was nothing stopping whoever did from turning Harry over for the right price—then the possibilities for where he was and why were infinite.

Tonks hoped that wherever Harry was, he was with Arthur, that they were unhurt, and that they were still in the land of the living.

* * *

"_Har-ry_," sang a voice.

_Christ_, Harry thought, suppressing a groan. _You again. _He cracked his eyes open, relieved to find his glasses in place. He squinted up from where he was once again bound and lying on his side like a discarded shank of meat. Sure enough, there was his captor, resplendent in tailed jacket and top hat, face blurred.

They were back in the luxury suite, and the man was sitting in one of the plush velvet chairs with his leg crossed, as he apparently had been doing for quite some time.

Harry _hated _this room. It made a mockery of his situation. At least if he'd been in a stone cell, he could properly say _I'm a prisoner_. Maybe they'd feed him through a trap door, and there would be a little window that let in light from high above, and there might be rats scurrying about.

But _here_, the whole thing just seemed absurd. Yes, he'd been held for days, yes he'd been starved, yes he'd nearly been killed by a troll. But then he came back to this cushy room, as if he were some kind of pampered guest, and it didn't matter if he couldn't sleep in that big, plush bed. He was being held in a bedroom, while a leisurely party went on just outside. It made it all seem a lie.

It made him feel embarrassed, humiliated, and, in a masochistic sort of way, cheated. He'd been robbed of a properly grim and gritty cell, and instead had to lie tied up in an opulent bedroom like some kind of slave waiting for its master's pleasure. Of course, that was probably just the way his captor wanted him to feel.

Harry grimaced, and decided that if—_when_—he got out of this, he would definitely tell the story differently.

Harry realized that, although he felt rather stiff—and this throbbing headache had to be from dehydration, and his stomach seemed to be trying to wring itself like a hand towel—he didn't feel like anything was broken.

The man, who had been watching him silently, seemed to detect his confusion, because he waved a hand dismissively. "I'm afraid they patched you up before I could retrieve you from the lower level. Standard procedure, you see. Pity, that."

Harry just stared back at him, quietly grinding his teeth.

"Still nothing to say, Mr. Potter? Well, at least you've learned that, in the absence of anything interesting, it is best to say nothing at all."

_Accio_, Harry thought, focusing hard on a heavy looking lamp behind the man. It slipped off its table and fell pointlessly to the floor, and the effort left Harry dizzy. He was running on fumes, it seemed. Even though the man's face was blurred, Harry could see him crack a wide smile at the attempt.

Harry blew a long breath out his nose, trying to be calm. "Sorry to disappoint."

"On the contrary!" the man said, sounded highly affronted. "You performed magnificently! Honestly, I thought at first that you were too dim-witted to last through meeting the convicts, let alone two rounds in the Pit. Bravo, Harry Potter. Bravo." He clapped softly.

Harry controlled the twitch in his face that threatened to become a feral snarl. There was no point in letting the man provoke him. Getting angry might loose some wild magic—though likely not, considering he hadn't had any luck so far—but he wouldn't think of a way out of this without a cool head. "I suppose you're simply holding me until Voldemort gets here," he said flatly.

"Voldemort?" the man asked. "Vol-de-mort may get his shot at you eventually, but I'm afraid he wasn't _invited_ on this little excursion. Can't have Dark Lords traipsing around the ship, murdering innocents, now can I?"

Harry snorted. This man was an idiot. "Somehow I don't think not getting an invitation will stop him."

"You certainly aren't the brightest bulb, are you Harry Potter? Ever heard of the Fidelius charm? No, the Dark Lord will have his chance at you when _I_ decide." His voice took on a thoughtful air. "Or perhaps I'll let one of his lackeys have you. What a slap in the face that would be, to have his most precious quarry delivered to his doorstep like a loyal cat with a dead mouse. I'm sure you know a few of them who received invitations."

Harry blanched.

The man laughed at his expression. "You poor boy. You are much too amusing." He leaned forward suddenly, voice dropping to a morbidly curious whisper. "How much longer do you think you can last, Harry Potter? I think just a day more, and you'll break utterly. What would you do, even now, for a glass of water?"

Harry flinched, imagining the taste of cool liquid, of drinking his fill. It was a physical pain. For a long moment he nearly cried in anguish at the very idea of being able to slake his thirst.

But then the question made him think of something else. _Water…_ His eyes narrowed. If he could get to a large enough body of water, he could slip through to the Other Side, and escape this place. His heart pounded in his ears, and he only dimly acknowledged his captor's satisfied chuckle.

Even a glass of water would do, if he could spread it out far enough. He swallowed hard, imaging spilling the hypothetical glass on the floor rather than drinking it as his parched throat and pounding head demanded.

Then another thought assailed him. Was he strong enough to make the trip through to the other side, and to make the journey back to the mainland? What if dementors showed up again? Could he cast a Patronus without a wand? Could he do it even _with_ a wand in this state?

A crunching sound made him look up. His captor was eating an apple.

And that was it.

In that instant, Harry was possessed by such a violent, dark rage that he could have killed the man. The ropes binding him began to smoke.

The man didn't seem to notice. "Anyhow, I just thought I'd let you know that after your wonderful exhibition yesterday, everyone who knows about you wants to meet you, and everyone who doesn't know about you wants to find out. But I thought I would let one of my good friends meet you first. You see, I owe him something of a favor, and he seemed ever so eager to see you in person."

Harry stared at him, almost too angry to feel any fear.

The man nodded cheerfully, still chewing. "I think you may have even met him before. You do know Lucius Malfoy, don't you?"

Harry felt as if the life was draining out of him. _Wriggle out of this one, Potter,_ he mocked himself. _It's only what you deserve for falling for the same thing twice. Good old Lucius will be able to finally deliver that 'sticky end' he always promised. _

His mouth tasted like ash. His veins felt like ice. His heart pounding in his temple matched the other man's footsteps as he paced toward him.

"I thought so." A gloved hand patted him on the shoulder. "If it's any consolation, Harry Potter, this really isn't about you, although you have made things so much more interesting." The hand moved to lightly slap his face, and Harry didn't even have the fire left to flinch away. "You're just a chip. No, it's about proving something to someone who thought you were untouchable. It's about proving that I can pull you out from under your pithy protections any time I choose, and that he's a sorry excuse for a wizard because I find it so—very—easy." He punctuated each word with a smack, and his apple-scented breath rolled over Harry.

Then he stood, and strolled to the door. "Lucius should be here in a few hours. Feel free to surprise me again, Harry Potter." Just before he stepped out, he tossed the half-eaten fruit over his shoulder, and it rolled to a stop several feet away from Harry. "Horrible apple," the man commented with a smile in his voice. Then he was gone.

Harry stared for a long time at that apple; he memorized the dull gleam of its green skin and every contour of the crescent bites taken out of it. His mind seemed to have ground to a halt, finally, reduced to buzzing around in a tiny circle like a gnat. What could he do? Nothing. He was going to die. Lucius Malfoy was going to come kill him, and it would be so… very… easy.

Harry pounded his already throbbing head on the floor, and began to seethe. How could he be so helpless? He was supposed to be learning to stand up to Voldemort, and yet at the moment he couldn't even summon the energy to scoot over and eat that bloody apple.

He really needed to, if he was to have any chance at all. Even if it was by the tiniest sliver of probability, he knew he would make it no further if he didn't suck it up and get some sustenance. The idea of eating it—of picking it up off the floor, after it had been chewed on by that man—was such an affront to Harry's pride that for a hysterical moment, he considered dying rather than lowering himself to that. And his captor had known it.

"Bugger," he muttered hoarsely, and began to thrash and wriggle his way across the hardwood floor.

He ate the whole thing—seeds and all—in slow, deliberate bites. He was slow and deliberate because he had to be; his hands were tied up. He imagined his captor walking in at that moment, to see him stretched out on his stomach, gnawing at the apple like some kind of big worm, and his veins blazed in embarrassment and anger.

When he'd finished, core and all, he rolled over on his back, uncaring that he was lying on his bound arms, and almost couldn't believe the difference a bit of water, sugar, and fiber made.

He sat up abruptly, and let a wave of dizziness pass. If Lucius Malfoy was coming, he needed to be ready. He needed some kind of weapon—a sharp object, or at least something big and heavy. But first he needed to get these damn ropes off.

They were still smoking slightly, and he briefly tried simply pulling them apart. A few seconds of straining, and nicely singeing his wrists, convinced him that the ropes needed to be weakened just a bit further.

Getting himself angry wasn't difficult—simply parading the events of the last few days through his mind was enough to get his blood boiling. He was being used; he was just a pawn for this blurry-faced bastard to get to someone—Dumbledore, most likely. Dumbledore, who hadn't told him that the imposter problem hadn't been resolved—hadn't given him any updates on the matter at all. Dumbledore, who hadn't told him that Lucius Malfoy had escaped from Azkaban. Dumbledore, who still saw fit to keep Harry in the dark, even when it was increasingly obvious that Harry needed information more than anyone.

Rage built up in him like a slow inferno, and for a moment he was so angry that he forgot what he was even trying to do. The lamp on the floor near the bedside table trembled, before violently exploding outward.

"Oh, brilliant," Harry snarled. Shattering the lamp was _very _helpful. Luckily, this new complication only added fuel to the fire, and he refocused his anger on the thick ropes that bound his wrists.

At first, nothing happened, which made him want to bash his head against the floor. Why was it so much harder here? Was he just too weak? But then smoke began to trail past his nostrils, and his heart leapt in his chest. Unfortunately, the sudden swooping happiness doused his rage, and the heat petered off again.

Harry growled, battling with himself. He was mad again, but what would stop him from cheering up the minute his ropes started burning? He would just have to think both ways, he thought grimly.

He gathered up his rage again, and visualized the ropes burning. When they started smoking again, he ruthlessly quashed the surge of satisfaction, and instead focused on the myriad things that were pissing him off at the moment. Voldemort, Dumbledore, his unnamed captor… Eventually he settled on Lucius Malfoy's smarmy, laughing face, and he was so focused on mentally beating the man to a bloody pulp that it took him a few seconds to notice that the rope had actually burst into flame.

He cursed, ripping his arms apart and sending the pieces of flaming rope flying to opposite corners of the room. He flexed his hands with a sigh and watched with mild amazement as the healthy flames slowly died on their own rather than setting fire to the bed hangings.

Well, maybe that answered the question of why he hadn't set the place alight a long time ago. It _was_ a wooden ship, he reasoned, and likely to have some kind of damping wards.

Merlin his shoulders ached. He rose to his feet. He needed water, and a wand. Maybe he could lift one off one of the wizards outside, and then… well, if worst came to worst, they _were_ out on the ocean; he could always jump overboard.

He suddenly wondered what would happen if he came out on the Other Side over the ocean. Would he just fall back through? He briefly pictured himself getting tossed back and forth in an endless loop, before shaking his head and reaching for the doorknob. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it. First—

Harry jumped back with a yelp as the door flashed to life, singeing his hand.

"Agh," he growled. "Course there's security on the door."

Trying to _Accio_ the door had similarly disappointing results.

He turned away and paced for a moment. His eyes landed on another lamp. Crossing to it, he quickly unscrewed the hood and the wick and carried it over to the bare floor near the door. _Please work_, he prayed silently, and poured it out.

It spread across the planks, thick and viscous, and Harry wasted no time in trying to reach through it. His fingers encountered only solid wood, and he fastened the need to escape in his mind before trying again. Again, nothing.

He cursed half-heartedly. He hadn't had much hope in the first place—it was oil, after all, not water. Plus, he had no way of knowing if the puddle was too shallow.

Well, he had other options yet. With another flash of inspiration, he _banished_ the puddle of oil, pushing it until it pooled at the threshold of the door. His anger was quick and willing this time, and with a snap of his fingers, the puddle ignited.

The roar of flames lit up the room, and Harry suddenly had high hopes that, security wards or no, that door would come down. But the flames crackled against bursts of blue light, and the door remained unscathed. To make matters worse, the oil was quickly spent, and the flames, without such easy fuel, were quickly suppressed.

Harry quashed the urge to destroy something else, but it was difficult. All he'd accomplished was to fill the room with smoke. Lucius wouldn't even need to do anything; by the time he got there, Harry would have already finished himself off by way of asphyxiation.

"Damn," he muttered, running his hands through his hair. _Now_ he was out of ideas. His eyes briefly grazed the window on the other side of his room, but he knew that, with the position of the hallway, there was no way that view wasn't an illusion. The glass was likely warded in any case, and without a wand, Harry had no hope of doing any damage to it even if it wasn't. It all came back to that; he needed his wand. He needed _any _wand.

It was like that riddle—how do you get out of a room with no windows and no doors, if the only things inside are a wooden table and a saw?

Harry hated riddles, almost as much as he hated problems with no solutions. He sat in the middle of the floor, partly to think, and partly to get his head out of the hanging smoke. He found himself looking at a little gilded table by the door, as a tiny thought niggled in the back of his mind. Furrowing his brow, he remembered something that convict, Toliman, had said. What was it? He'd been talking about improvising or something…

"_Wizards are magical creatures, yes?"_

Harry frowned, rubbing his forehead. Why was he remembering that? His gaze moved distractedly over the table again, with its spindly little legs, and he froze.

Wands were made of wood, with a core taken from a magical creature.

Wizards were magical creatures.

Harry stared at the little table, pulse pounding in his ears. He knew a little bit about crafting wands, just from his own simple curiosity, Hermione's more obsessive brand of curiosity, and his brief encounters with Ollivander himself. He tried to think of a reason why it wouldn't theoretically work, and couldn't. Fleur Delacour's wand, back in fourth year, had been Veela hair, and she was part Veela, right? If anything, it should work fairly well, and it certainly couldn't be worse than nothing. It would probably have to be blood, since he didn't have the time or the skill to properly set anything else…

Harry shot to his feet decisively and moved to the table by the door. He just needed a leg, and he reached down to brace it with his left hand while kicking the joint with his right foot. It separated with a satisfying crack, making the little piece of furniture wobble sadly on its remaining three legs.

He examined it carefully—it was surprisingly heavy, and pitch black beneath all the gilding, but it _was_ some kind of wood—and frowned for a moment as he considered how to hollow it out. He remembered the bloodied nail in his pocket, and pulled it out.

"I wish you were a screw," he told it after a moment. Unfortunately, the nail wasn't listening, and remained a nail.

Well, there was more than one way to dig a hole. After a few abortive attempts, Harry managed to levitate the nail, and after a few moments more in which he screwed his face up with angry concentration, the pointed end of the metal began to glow a deep red.

He was getting rather good at this, he thought, as he slowly burned out the center of the table leg. A grim smile tugged at his mouth. Lucius Malfoy wouldn't know what hit him.


	8. To Fight

CHAPTER 8

Tonks rolled out of bed at noon that day. She'd pushed off all her blankets at some point during the night, so it was simply a matter of turning over and getting her feet under herself, and clumsily grabbing for her wand from the cluttered bedside table.

Rubbing her palm in one eye as she haphazardly navigated the obstacle course that was her room—clothes strewn here and there, misplaced stacks of case files, her three guitars, that big crate of phosphorescent goldfish in little plastic baggies from last night's anticlimactic raid on a muggle carnival—Tonks mentally cursed the night shift, anonymous tips, and Harry Potter with equal vitriol.

The rest of her apartment was similarly full to the brim of the bits and pieces of her life. Why bother to organize? She knew where everything was.

The place was on the top floor of a spindly building crowded in amongst similarly aged buildings in downtown London. It must have been some rich family's townhouse at one time, because the attic apartment was, in fact, shaped much like an attic; all odd angles and swooping ceilings. Luckily the attic floor had been taken out long ago, leaving her with something like a floor-and-a-half of airspace, which she had filled lovingly with moving posters of all kinds, along with hanging bits of bric-a-brac. There were souvenirs from the job, and mementos from her travels with her parents. An old pair of snowshoes hung over the sad little heater huddled in the corner, and a tattered old Quidditch flag for the Wimbourne Wasps hung from the rafters just in front of another for Australia's Woollongong Warriors.

She'd painted over the ancient walls with a vibrant indigo blue in the living area, and a burnt orange-red in her room—strictly speaking, she wasn't supposed to make alterations to the apartment, but then she also wasn't supposed to have an owl, or play her guitars obnoxiously loudly, or come in through the cupola window up in the rafters on a broomstick, but magic was funny that way.

She blearily set herself up with a piece of toast with jam and pair of boiled eggs—she wasn't much of a fan, but as an Auror she was obligated to get a certain amount of protein, and was too lazy to fix anything else—and pulled the fresh copy of Witches Weekly over. The Daily Prophet also lay nearby, but if it was already noon and she hadn't been summoned by the Order, it was a good chance there was still no news about Harry.

Her owl Beauregard clattered onto the table from wherever he'd been lurking, making a pass at her eggs, an attempt which she deflected with a half-hearted swipe at his face. He wasn't the handsomest bird, despite his name; the mottled cream and brown feathers around his head stuck up rather randomly as if he'd been hit in the face with a gust of wind, giving him a permanently shocked and bewildered expression. It probably didn't help that Tonks was always smacking him around, either in irritation or simple clumsiness.

"Bloody bird," she muttered, trying to read. "Go hunting or something! Catch a rat, for once…" She changed her mind, digging out a couple of owl pellets, at the same time that he gamboled away across the table, and ended up pelting the owl in the back.

He hooted indignantly, twisting around, but was overcome with such enthusiasm when he discovered the treats that he fell off the table.

Tonks just sighed, and went back to reading.

An item in the Table of Contents caught her attention—_Harry Potter: Birthday Special Feature!_ Tonks smirked at the page numbers: 45 – 55. No doubt half of them were blurry shots from 'public sightings!', like a couple of muggle Bigfoot shots, but still. If Harry knew his virtues were expounded upon so often in Witch Weekly, he'd probably have a conniption. Chuckling, she couldn't help flipping to the article. Heck, it wasn't every day one of your friends was written about in a popular publication—only every week.

She waded through the usual diatribe—his life's history, his interests, his friends—before flipping to the partner article.

_HARRY POTTER: SUMMER FUN?_

_World Exclusive_

When her eyes absorbed the luke-warm title, she scoffed, and immediately shoved the magazine aside. These people had no idea how Harry spent his 'holidays'. She'd seen the Dursleys—she'd been on watch duty often enough to know that Harry's summers were never 'fun.' With a final snort, she went back to her breakfast.

Beauregard the owl, however, had found his way back up to the table, snapping up owl treats along the way, and ended up stooped over the article. Tonks watched the crazy looking bird, amused, and if she hadn't known any better, she would have thought the owl was reading.

* * *

As it turned out, the bird _was_ reading.

Unfortunately for them both, Beauregard didn't know how to speak, so he could only hop up and down in a manic sort of way, until Tonks pelted him with more owl treats before finally stuffing him out the kitchen window. If she had read the article, it would have gone something like this:

_Is Harry Potter living a secret, double life? Some think so. Various sources claim to have spotted a young man who is the spitting image of Wizarding Britain's darling—in a pit fight! When most of us think of summer vacation, we think of backyard barbecues, picnics, and trips to the seashore. If the rumor is true, Harry Potter spends his down time in much the same way he spends the rest of his time: dramatically and dangerously. _

_Those of you familiar with famous wizard ship the Galloping Galleon will recall that tickets are invite-only and highly sought after. It wouldn't surprise us if Harry Potter managed to score a pass, but the circumstances surrounding the sightings are highly suspect. Yesterday, before awestruck crowds, a young look-alike faced the challenges of the Pit, a competitive arena style match-up against monstrous magical foes—without a wand! One anonymous spectator told us, "he took down a Mountain Troll with nothing but a handful of nails!" Another stated she had, "never seen anything like it, not in all [her] years!"_

_As you can see, the images we've been able to acquire show only a young man with dark hair, and no one affiliated with the Galloping Galleon has come forward to substantiate the rumors. So what do you think? Could Harry Potter really be moonlighting as an exhibition fighter? Send us your thoughts…_

But Tonks didn't read the article, and because the Order hadn't reported Harry as a missing person, there hadn't been a reason to print anything in the Daily Prophet. It would be hours before anyone else bothered to look at the magazine. They all had too much to worry about to waste time on a quiet moment of leisurely reading.

* * *

Harry sat cross-legged in the smoky gloom, rhythmically tapping his blood wand against the hardwood floor, and watched the door.

The wand was something of an aberration, he knew. An average wand was somewhere around 10 inches long, and this one was more than two feet in length, for starters. It should have been cleanly varnished, but it was instead covered in scrolling gold leaf and pearly finish, chipped on the thick end where he'd broken it off from the table to show the midnight wood beneath.

He'd capped the narrow, hollow end with the iron nail, and sealed it as best he could, but he wasn't sure how well it had worked out.

Probably the worst was that it was full of his own blood, along with whatever residue of troll's blood there had been left on the nail. Would that count as two cores, or one core from a half-troll?

But, in spite of the crude design, he'd been able to perform spells. Not spectacularly, by any stretch of the imagination—it seemed to respond better when he was angry, and the further away his intended target, the stickier the spell got, but it worked.

Of course the first thing he'd tried after sealing it off was a desperate '_Aguamenti!' _He'd been madly optimistic with the anticipation of imminent escape, but regretted casting the spell almost instantly. The humidity in the room, which was already low from when he'd tried to set fire to the door, dropped so sharply that his throat went dry as parchment, his lips cracked, and his eyes stuck to the back of his eyelids. He'd dropped to his knees, coughing harshly, and watched with disbelief as his wand spurted out a mean trickle of water. It spattered the floor, before quickly evaporating again. Harry might have wept, except he didn't have enough water for tears.

But the wand worked.

And it was for that reason that he waited with unbridled anticipation, almost humming with newly discovered energy.

He just needed someone to open that door. That stupid, reckless part of him—the part that was still much too loud for his liking—hoped it would be Lucius. In truth, anyone else would be better. Maybe just a cleaning maid to check on the room—but no, that's what the house elves were there for, and it didn't seem this room was on their route anyway.

He very much wanted to lay waste to the beautiful room, but decided against it. That would only alert the first person who walked in to the fact that he had a weapon.

He resumed thumping the blood wand against the floor. A long dormant part of him was pleased with his Frankenstein creation; he hardly ever had a chance to create things. When he was younger, it had been because Dudley would eat all of the play-dough or crayons or whatever it was they might have used. Not to mention that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia probably thought Harry would create voodoo dolls or something if given the opportunity. Now, it had more to do with the fact that, in order to make anything with magic, one needed special training. Maybe it wasn't really as hard as he'd thought.

As much as he was fascinated by the process, the better part of him hoped against hope that his real wand turned up—that it had been dropped at some point in transit, and not simply snapped in half like a twig. He thought about losing the protection afforded by having the brother to Voldemort's wand, and shivered.

Long minutes passed. The view of the ocean from the window—the only source of light in the otherwise darkened room—told him that it was around noon. Time ticked by, marked only by his rhythmic tapping.

He became aware of footsteps and voices that lingered outside the door. Harry caught his breath, tensing. Was this it? Would he have his chance? Heart racing, he leaned back against the wooden column in the middle of the floor so it would seem he was still tied up, and carefully propped the blood wand behind him.

The door latch clicked, and was slowly pushed open. "Good afternoon, Mr. Potter," came a silky voice. With a flick of the unseen cane, the chandelier above Harry's head burst into light, and Lucius Malfoy stepped gracefully into the room.

Harry didn't answer; it was all he could do to not launch himself at the man immediately, though every muscle was ready.

"I must congratulate you," Malfoy continued, carelessly baring his back to Harry as he pushed the door shut and removed his gloves. _Now!_ But the other man was already turning back with a cruel grin. "on another birthday. None of us ever expected you to live for so long."

Harry stared at him. He couldn't help himself, and barked out a short, hard laugh. "You remembered! Did you get me anything good? I'm not picky—last year the Dursleys gave me a clothespin. Not very useful on its own, really."

Lucius' smile twitched, but he regained his cool derision after a moment. "The Boy Who Lived. Your life has been so… difficult. Perhaps I can help put an end to it."

"Is that what you're here for? To finish me off? Don't you think you're a little late to the party?" Reckless anger spurred him on. "You're like a baby bird who has to have its food digested first. Well here I am, beaten to a palatable pulp, Death Eater."

Lucius gave him a strained sneer. "Believe me, Mr. Potter, the very moment I learned of your presence, I leapt at the chance for a _visit_. It is hardly any fault of mine that so very many people wish to, ah, beat you to a pulp."

"I'm flattered. Are you even _allowed_ to kill me?"

Lucius' grin widened further, and for the first time, Harry caught a glimpse of teeth. "You have no idea, you pathetic child. You cannot even comprehend the chasm that stretches wide between life and death, just waiting to be filled with pain. You cannot fathom how long a person can be held right at the very cusp, and still live."

Harry met the malicious smile with a stony glare. It was all talk. "There's nothing you can do to me. You can't kill me, and I'm not afraid of pain."

Lucius took a soft step forward, suddenly looming large in his black velvet robes. There was a crazed light in his eyes, zealous and gleeful. "You expect me to leave you whole. We have very different ideas of _alive_, you and I. Do you need legs to live? Do you need arms, or ears, or a tongue, or eyes? The Dark Lord cares not whether you have _eyes_, Harry Potter. I'm tempted to render you completely incapable of even sensing your doom, as I deposit you at his feet."

Harry swallowed a cold rush of dread. He'd thought, at first, that Lucius had emerged from Azkaban completely unscathed, but he was wrong. The man had cracked. Harry wondered if Draco knew. He was suddenly ill with uncertainty that he would survive this, but managed to summon a snarl. "So you're going to have bit of fun before taking me to your master? Not a very punctual minion, are you?"

"The Dark Lord is… indisposed at the moment. He will hardly fault me a few days of enjoyment, nor you a few missing sensory organs."

"I suppose you'll come over here and carve them out yourself?"

Lucius scoffed elegantly. "Hardly. There's a spell for that, stupid boy. Would you like to learn it? I'm afraid there's only one test dummy in the room, but I don't mind showing it to you. Although… I'm frightfully concerned that you won' be able to… _see_ it." He laughed, low and rolling, a sound of true amusement, while disengaging his wand from his cane.

Harry's heart threatened to leap from his throat as he watched. He needed to move, _now_, but his imagination rose up to pelt him with images of bleeding, empty eye-sockets, and his breath came in shallow gasps. He was paralyzed.

Move. _Move._

Lucius' wand was already whipping through the air, and he muttered some harsh sounding incantation.

And that was when Harry felt it—an itch along his left tear duct, and a probing, stinging sharpness behind his eye. His breath hissed sharply—he imagined the man's foul magic working, severing, slithering in his head—and his insides coiled in violent reaction. "_No_!" he shouted, panicking blindly. He lashed out, _pushing_ everything away.

The needling presence disappeared with a sucking sensation that left his eyes watering, while everything else in the room crashed into the walls, as if in the path of a blast of wind.

Lucius hit the door with a loud grunt, but to Harry's dismay, he regained his feet easily, laughing. "O-_ho_, you have a bit of fight in you yet, boy!"

Harry's eye was streaming, and it was only when a drop fell to spatter on his trousers that he realized it was not tears, but blood that was smeared across his cheek. Fury constricted his throat. He had never felt himself, his personal security, so easily and thoroughly violated. His left eye throbbed in time with his heartbeat—how close he had come to losing it. He would not give the man another chance.

Lucius was still laughing delightedly; apparently he liked his victims to struggle.

Harry was done playing. He surged to his feet, whipping his monstrous wand out like a club, and sent a severing charm at the chandelier over his head. Its chain snapped with a crack, and before it could fall, Harry banished the ungainly thing at his enemy.

Lucius barely had time to erect a shield; he'd been too gob-smacked by Harry's apparent split second escape and the revelation that he was armed.

The chandelier smashed against the hasty shield in a spectacular explosion of glass and light. Harry was already moving. He tore a length of drapery from the bed hangings, tossed up a shield between himself and Malfoy, and transfigured the bolt of silk into a massive sidewinder.

"_Bite the man_," he hissed at the powder-grey snake, and it regarded him for a second from beneath spiny brows, before whipping toward the older man with frightening speed.

Malfoy gave a strangled curse, and while he was momentarily occupied with trying to land a hit on the blindingly fast reptile, Harry was summoning all the broken glass in the room. He remembered his fight against the first Dumbledore clone, and knew that simple shards of glass wouldn't be good enough.

His rage was easy to focus, especially with the flashing gold blood wand buzzing in his hand. The cloud of glittering glass began to heat. Just before Harry's shield could phase out, he managed to collect a clot of molten glass that glowed with heat, causing the air around it to ripple.

Lucius finally dispatched the snake with a sizzling purple curse at the same time that Harry shot a swarm of glowing orange globs at him.

Lucius, thinking it was some kind of magical attack, summoned a shimmering white shield. The molten glass phased right through it, and the older man shrieked as the boiling globs burned through his velvet robes. He immediately cast some kind of misting spell, and summoned up the floorboards, creating a wall between himself and his opponent.

Harry, still levitating the remainder of his molten glass with his off hand, sent a roaring bludgeoning curse at the barrier, cracking through the wood and sending splinters flying. But Lucius had already moved to the side, and before Harry could figure out what the man was doing, something massive and heavy clubbed him from behind. He dropped to one knee, head spinning, as the wooden column, standing a moment before in the middle of the room, rolled off his shoulder and thudded to the floor.

Harry growled, shaking his head to clear it, and in a blink he levitated the heavy column and shot it like a javelin across the room.

Lucius was too quick for this, deflecting and stepping aside at the same time, and the column buried itself six feet into the wall. No doubt it was now sticking out into the hallway, and would have made a good option for earlier escape. Harry had no time to worry about that. He needed to finish this, but he needed his opponent distracted and off-balance.

Malfoy, hunching painfully over the deep burns that covered his torso, sent a hissing bone-breaker curse through the air.

Instead of trying to dodge, Harry blasted off a powerful stunner, and took the curse in the chest. For the second time in as many days, he felt his ribs shatter, but he only grunted. While Lucius was distracted by the stunner, which crackled so brightly that it illuminated the whole room, Harry levitated a heavy vase from behind the man and blindsided him with it.

Lucius stumbled, and it was easy to see that he lost it at that moment. He straightened, showing the whites of his eyes. Harry banished the molten globe of glass straight at him at the same time that Lucius shrieked, "_Crucio_!"

Harry knew a second—an eternity—of blinding, paralyzing, heart-stopping pain, and was vaguely aware of falling to the floor. That was it; he'd lost.

But to his amazement the pain vanished in the next heartbeat, leaving him aching and drained. Harry dragged himself up from where he'd fallen, to see Lucius howling and clutching at the side of his face. With a roar of pure fury, the man cast the molten glass aside, his flesh smoking, and whipped around to face Harry.

Harry, trembling with the aftershock of the Cruciatus, lifted his hand. With a grinding wrench, the wooden column burst free of the wall, and clubbed Lucius in the back of the head.

The man fell bonelessly, and the log crashed to the ground, clattering to a halt, just inches from Harry's feet. The room was suddenly, impossibly still.

Harry almost dropped in a swoon of relief and exhaustion. Lucius did not seem to be moving. The room was utterly destroyed, and Harry could see, through the small hole in the wall left by the wood column, that people were milling around outside.

Harry limped toward the still figure of Lucius Malfoy, sprawled in the dust, his blond hair splayed out like a silky fan. Harry, wand arm tensed in case the stillness was an act, hooked a toe under the man's shoulder, and rolled him over.

He nearly gasped out loud at what he saw. The man's aristocratic features were marred by a massive burn that extended across the upper right hemisphere of his face. It was blackened, and cracked, and the ear on that side had been reduced to a stump. The glass seemed to have splattered, making the burns look like a massive, blackened handprint.

Harry swallowed a rush of bile. He'd done this. It wasn't even a spell, not really—he might as well have picked up a rock and bashed the man with it. He took a faltering step back, hearing the voices rising outside.

Then he noticed blood was pooling beneath the senior Malfoy's head, likely from getting clipped by the log, and quickly crouched to find a pulse. The idea of killing someone was one he couldn't stomach—not even Malfoy. The pulse was weak, but it was there. The man was losing too much blood, though. At this rate…

Harry wracked his brains. What was that spell Hagrid had used? Sil—sit—sut—yes! That was it. "_Sutura!_" he muttered, trying to use the correct wand movement. He was rewarded by a faint blue glow, but nothing else. It was as if his wand knew his reluctance to help the man.

But he didn't want Malfoy to _die_. He wanted him to be tried, and go to prison—to suffer the humiliation of failure every day for the rest of his miserable existence. The damn coward—he had no right to die like a martyr.

Harry tried the spell again, to no avail. Maybe he had the incantation wrong.

He groaned in frustration. If he left the man here, Lucius would eventually recover from his wounds with the help of his friends on the ship, and then he would be back to torturing and murdering innocents in general, and would probably be out for Harry's blood in particular. No, he couldn't leave him here.

Harry had to bring the man along, or kill him.

Looking at the sprawled form, Harry knew he didn't have it in him to do it—to kill a helpless person with cool, logical purpose.

But Lucius was losing so much blood, it began to seem like Harry's decision wouldn't matter either way.

He froze, staring at the eerily growing pool, even as the cries outside grew louder, and an insistent pounding began. Blood. Blood was mostly made of… "Water."

Shit.

_Crunch time, Potter_, he told himself. _They're going to knock down that door any minute, and they're going to see Lord Malfoy, esteemed socialite, all bludgeoned and burned on the floor. And he's got at least one friend on this ruddy boat—a friend who has no trouble incapacitating _you_._

But Oh God, that blood… could he do it? Could he step into that dark, mirror-like surface? It would be sticky, and warm… or was it cold by now? He imagined it coating him from head to foot, and nearly gagged.

He swallowed hard, and shook his head. He didn't even know if he'd survive a trip through that other, dark world, and his chances didn't improve with Malfoy in tow.

He'd sworn to himself he wouldn't go back.

"Damn it," he muttered harshly.

The pounding grew louder by the second, but when they finally broke through, it was too late. By the time the last wards were brought down, and the door pushed open past the heavy log and the ruptured barricade of floorboards, the only thing they found was a dark pool of blood, and the smear of a moved body.


	9. Injustice

CHAPTER 9

This time it was quick—air and rushing water bombarded him, and he was pulled along by a thousand torrential arms. Beneath it all there was a sense of grasping eagerness that filled him with fear.

And then he emerged on the other side in a flurry of ash and embers—had the blood been burned off of him?

The overwhelming light he had not expected—it was brighter even than the room had been in the real world, and he hissed, trying to cover his eyes. It only took him a moment to realize how fruitless that was; his eyelids and his hand glowed just as brightly as everything else.

The light—it came from the ship. Every wall, every piece of furniture, every fixture was saturated with magic. The wards gave it all structure, and it appeared before Harry as a monstrous three-dimensional maze of radiant lines—a glass tower at night, run through with laser lights.

And there was screaming.

Lucius Malfoy was coming apart—flaking and charring like a painting dropped in a fire. He writhed in Harry's grip, shrieking one long, inhuman sound of agony, and Harry let him go.

He thrashed away, scuttling and twisting like a spider—half blackening, disintegrating skin, half malevolently glowing red lines. Harry could only stare as Lucius Malfoy, the man, was stripped away until only a howling red figure was left.

The creature flew to the ceiling, as if compelled, crawling and scrambling disjointedly over the contours, joints twisting and cracking with every frenzied movement. Slipping into the space between wards, he—_it_—gave a last terrible yowl, and was gone.

Harry stared at the space where the thing had disappeared, dumbstruck.

He couldn't help the snort that escaped him, and immediately clapped a hand over his mouth. It was horrendous, yes, unbelievable. And the laughter that threatened to overtake him was more hysterical than mirthful, but…

How would he ever explain this?

'_What did you do with Mr. Malfoy?'_

'_Ah, well, that's a funny story, see… I sort of dragged him into a parallel world, where he turned into a gibbering monster, and then I lost him.'_

What would Draco Malfoy say? Narcissa? Voldemort? Maybe that was the way to defeat the Dark Lord—drag him through to the Other Side and flash-roast him.

He hadn't known—never would have imagined—_that _would happen.

And his only other option had been to kill him. At least here he seemed to be… somewhat lively. Maybe it wasn't even all that unusual of a reaction. Maybe that's what actually happened to Harry each time.

That argument sounded weak even in his head.

_Maybe you didn't pull the trigger, but you as good as killed him_. Maybe it was better this way. Unlike in Azkaban, Malfoy wouldn't be broken out of this place any time soon.

All he could do was chalk it up to experience and move on.

_As if it were so easy_. Already he could feel this new guilt gnawing at him. And there was an itch between his shoulder blades reminding him that the creature could come back at any moment.

He pushed those feelings down, and slipped from the room, dodging between the bobbing lights of the witches and wizards who were pressing in around the doorway. He could see through the walls and floors, and the only thing that kept him from losing it was an unwillingness to think about why he wasn't dropping through to the ocean below.

And the ocean—why, he hadn't really thought about what it would look like, but…well, it was a little like standing on the sun, if the sun were blue instead of yellow.

He tried not to think about that either.

Looking ahead, there was something that drew his eye. It was hard to tell, with all the glowing, bobbing wizards and witches, and the intensely bright walls, but there seemed to be a massive sphere hanging in space amidst it all.

He shuffled his fatigued limbs a bit faster, hoping he wouldn't suddenly step through a wall and find a quick drop to the water. He came through what he remembered to be the red-carpeted hall, and emerged in the spherical chamber, stumbling to a halt with a gasp.

He remembered this. His captor had called it a Chinese River Spirit.

* * *

Altair Mengal, the tall, trim, and well-dressed Captain of the Galloping Galleon, was just passing the river spirit atrium on his way to a pressing matter in the guest wings when it happened.

There was a thump in the air, like the beautiful, fleeting tremor of a distant explosion. The rippling barrier that encased the river spirit flashed at the same moment, and viewers around the atrium balcony gasped out loud. Many began to stand and point.

Altair Mengal, despite the fact that he was needed elsewhere, found himself whirling to look over the railing, and gaped along with everyone else.

The river spirit had gone still and serene, but that was not what captured his attention. It was the figure—and truly, it defied any other description—that had stepped through the barrier and stood at the bottom of the sphere. It was like looking at a man made of fire.

No, that was not quite right. It was like liquid magma, moving in the shape of human veins. Altair Mengal felt his heart clench with fear, and it was a feeling he had not felt in a long time.

"What on Earth…?" he muttered. Or perhaps that wasn't quite accurate. The river spirit was otherworldly. This trap had been made by older, and more arcane minds than his, and even they had not fully understood it. It was a pocket of inverted space, they had said; without it, the spirit would become insubstantial. It could not escape until it was released—how had this other thing gotten through? "What are you?" he whispered, every hair on his arm standing on end.

As he watched, the fiery figure disappeared again, slipping right out of the sphere, and the barrier flashed with another thump that rattled his bones and set the light fixtures flickering.

The river spirit twitched, watching, waiting, hardly moving except for the watery reflections on its scaled hide, and the gentle waving of its feathery mane.

The figure appeared again, and the crowd around the atrium gasped anew. Altair Mengal felt for his knife—the one he didn't carry anymore—and it was a habit of fear that he hadn't shown in twenty years.

Then, right before his eyes, the blazing figure reached up with one hand, took the river spirit by a horn, and pulled its head through the barrier. Faster and faster the river spirit slipped away, and when the last of its long coils had disappeared—there was no evidence of either creature anywhere now—the barrier shuddered, flashed, and imploded.

Everyone in the atrium crumpled against the sharp intake of air, and Altair Mengal felt as if the breath had been stolen from his lungs. The atrium went dark. All the lights had been shattered, and bits of glass and papers still fell to the floor. It was several long moments before the confounded observers began to speculate in increasingly loud voices.

"Mercy," the Captain muttered, picking himself up and dusting himself off. Two of his assistants and several members of the crowd were already making a beeline toward him. "Find out what happened," he hissed to the first assistant. "Handle _them_," he told the second, putting the young man between himself and the guests.

With that, he was off to his original purpose, feeling peeved at himself for losing his self-control like so many of the riffraff in the room.

However, when he arrived at the Emerald wing, his mood took a turn for the better. The hall was packed with milling witches and wizards. The air was thick with smoke and debris, and another scent that reminded him faintly of roasted pork. There was a rather spectacular hole in the wall. People rushed up to him, eagerly filling in the details for him, and asking what actions should be taken.

"I haven't the foggiest idea," he told them. "Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Potter fought? Good Lord, how could this happen right under my nose?"

He called his aides, admonished them that he ran a tight ship, and that this was all unacceptable. He told them to find out who had arranged for the meeting. He made his rounds, assuring his guests, and arranged for the destroyed room to be cordoned off.

And then he retreated to his private rooms, poured himself a glass of brandy, and put up his feet. He frowned slightly to himself, but it was more considering than displeased. "And where did you go, Mr. Potter?"

* * *

Harry was learning that truer words had never been said: outer beauty did not always reflect inner beauty. At all.

"So what take you so long, stupid boy? I see you two days ago!"

Harry sighed. He sat astride the scaly, undulating form of the river spirit, just behind its graceful shoulders. They were speeding with otherworldly haste over the flashing blue sphere of the ocean under the sultry black sky, and the beast would not shut up. At first it had been the most amazing, surreal experience—the creature could move so _fast_, and they were just whipping through the air.

After rescuing it from its prison, Harry had simply asked it if it might happen to be going by Ottery St. Catchpole. Now he was regretting his hasty request.

"I was a little bit tied up," he answered, and clutched with his one free hand at the billowing mane as the river spirit dipped erratically toward the waves, trying not to drop his blood wand. "Christ!"

The river spirit bellowed a mocking laugh. Its deep voice might have been awe-inspiring, if it were not for its spotty English and piss-poor personality. "You scared, nancy-boy? I go too fast? You pee on me, I eat your first-born child!"

Harry grumbled, unable to formulate a response to such an absurd assertion. "Just get me to England, and we can agree to never see each other again!"

From what Harry could gather, the river spirit was one of the smaller rivers in China—the Karakash. It was way out in the desert near the western border, and didn't even empty into the ocean. Apparently that had given the spirit something of a complex. If Harry weren't so determined to _not_ have to swim back to land, he would have been tempted to respond in kind. He had complexes of his own, after all.

"You tied up two days; I tied up for _many moons!_" the beast insisted, twisting its massive head slightly to get a look at him.

"It wasn't just two days, and you didn't have to fight a _troll_," Harry growled back. He nearly bit his tongue when the spirit bucked again.

"I eat troll for _breakfast_," it sneered. "I spit and troll fall down in fear. Pee pants just like you!"

"I don't pee my pants," Harry objected, rolling his eyes. "And trolls don't even wear pants."

"Only shit trolls not wear pants. Your trolls shit. I eat _your_ _trolls'_ firstborn children."

"I expect that would happen if you ate them all for breakfast anyway."

"If not for helping Karakash, I fuck you up, little man," the beast rumbled. "You not answer question. Why take stupid boy two days?"

Harry wanted to bash his head on something. "I didn't have any water; I couldn't get away."

In a blink they had reached land, and were now rocketing over darkly rolling hills and little, bright pockets of ponds and lakes.

"Not have water?" Karakash repeated. Harry could practically see the gears turning in the beast's head. "You like humans? You from other side?"

Harry hesitated, aware that, having been captured by humans, the spirit might hold a grudge. "Yeah."

The river spirit seemed to swell, and it jerked its big head sideways, eye flashing. Its voice came as a rolling snarl. "You know how Karakash captured?"

"No!" Harry said hastily. "I've never heard of that kind of magic—"

"You find out!" Karakash demanded, pearly fangs flashing. "We trade—I give you water, you tell Karakash how this happen!"

Harry frowned in confusion. "You… give me water? I don't…"

"Maybe stupid boy too stupid to find answer…" the river spirit grumbled.

"Because _water_ is such a great incentive," Harry returned.

"I cut you up and use ribs to make spit for barbecue!" the spirit snarled.

"I'll skin you and use… your… scales for a shower curtain!" Harry shouted back.

"I hollow out skull and use for chamber pot!"

"I'll hack off your antlers and use them to scratch my ass!"

"I light head on fire and use for birthday cake!"

"I'll dam you for irrigation to water my crops!—oh wait, no I won't, because you're in the middle of the bloody desert, and you're too small anyway!"

There was a moment of silence, before Karakash said in a muted tone, "Stupid boy hit below belt."

Harry felt a little bad, despite himself. "Are we there yet?"

"How I am supposed to know? You say where to go, I go. You not say, we keep flying."

Harry resisted the urge to smack his forehead with his palm, since that would likely result in him falling off. Instead he peered over the scaly shoulder, and tried his best to figure out where they were and where they needed to go. The absence of man-made structures, coupled with the general darkness of the landscape, made this very difficult.

Karakash seemed to sense his indecision, and sounded smug. "Stupid boy not know where he want to go. We ask shit _English_ river."

Harry blinked. "That's actually a good idea. For a great bloody worm," he added.

The limber beast banked for a descent, giving a rumbling chuckle. "Stupid boy make stupid insult. Offspring will be too stupid to live. I eat them to spare pain."

Soon enough they spotted the bright, lazy ribbon of a river in the landscape below, but Harry was at a loss as to how it would translate into a spirit. "Is every body of water a spirit?" he mused aloud.

To his surprise, Karakash actually answered. "For little while, yes. Most not permanent; don't get to live very long."

Harry tried to wrap his mind around that. "So every puddle? Every pond?"

"Yes. Babies."

"Why didn't I ever see any?"

"Babies too small. You look harder, maybe you see one next time."

Harry felt a pang of horror. "Do I drink one every time I drink some water?"

The river spirit scoffed. "Water on earth, stupid boy. Not water in human things. No bath tub spirit."

Harry squinted at the creature. "How do you know what a bath tub is?"

"I hear. Human swim, say how great Karakash is—much better than bath tub."

"Of course." Harry rolled his eyes. They landed in a rush of air amongst the dark bracken at the bank of the stream. Karakash moved forward to dip his great snout in the pale blue water for several moments while Harry looked over his shoulder, fascinated.

"Derwent," the river spirit finally intoned in a deep, solemn voice. Then he completely ruined the mystery of the scene by withdrawing, sneezing the water from his snout and shaking his head.

For a long time, nothing happened. The breeze rippled the pale water, the riverweeds sighed, and Karakash seemed to grow more and more irritated.

Then a swell appeared out in the middle of the river, like the beginnings of a tsunami. It rose, vast as a hillside, before light rolled off the water in waves, the air trembled, and a long, thick, sinuous body arched out of the water.

The head appeared last of all, like someone lazily rising from their stomach, ass first. It was a massive head, the size of a single-car garage and shaped like the bastard offspring of a lion and a catfish.

When it had fully emerged from the river, water streaming from its silvery-scaled hide, it loomed nearly fifty feet high. Its wide set eyes reflected lemon yellow in the dark, staring down at them, and it gave a low whuffling snort.

Harry gaped.

The beast blinked. In the deepest voice Harry had ever heard, it said, "Well, whatchoo want, then?"

"Lazy-ass shit English river," Karakash muttered.

"Er," Harry sputtered, flabbergasted. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but…

The massive beast blinked again, and squinted. Small waves crashed away from it as it leaned toward them slightly. "Oy, do I know you, lad?"

Harry would have blanched in dismay if he'd been able to. Even _here_?

Sometimes he hated being Harry Potter, and he _always_ hated being the Boy-Who-Lived. "Nope, don't think so. I don't know many…er… river spirits, you know, so—uh, we were just wondering if you knew how to get to Ottery St. Catchpole… um, Derwent. Sir."

"A Quest it is, then!" the big spirit boomed in with inordinate enthusiasm. "Surely I do know the way, and would be right pleased to take you—"

"You tell us where, stupid English river," Karakash interrupted, to Harry's amazement. "Then you shut up. _I _take stupid boy."

The River Derwent looked rather put out at that, receding slightly into his bed, but he complied with unflappable good humor. Soon Harry and Karakash had taken to the air again, while the long, salamander shape of the mighty beast slipped back beneath the water below them.

"You're rather opinionated for a body of water," Harry told the spirit as they sped through streamers of clouds.

"I do favor. Stupid English river probably fall asleep halfway there. Probably not even get off ground," Karakash revised, guffawing.

They flew on for what might have been hours, or it might have been minutes, trading petty insults the entire way. Harry was doing his best to stay sharp and alert, but the warm, rushing wind was making it difficult to keep his eyes open. Now that he was on the home stretch, his fatigue was catching up with him.

By the time they touched down in the little village of Ottery St. Catchpole, where quite a few habitations showed up lined in bright wards, Harry was drifting in and out of consciousness.

"Boy," Karakash growled, jerking Harry to attention. "Time to go. I give you something, you do something for Karakash."

He seemed to be waiting for Harry's agreement, so Harry blearily nodded, sliding from the beast's sleek flank. They had landed near a large pond, and weeds squelched beneath his feet.

The river spirit crouched low, and with one sharp claw, cracked off the tip of one of the numerous tines in his mighty rack of antlers. Harry received the bit of horn with wide eyes. He didn't know much about spirits in general, but this seemed like something that didn't happen very often.

It was nearly four inches long, thick and knobby, and surprisingly hollow in the center. Harry looked up at the river spirit quizzically.

"Now you always have water," Karakash told him, grinning. Then his predatory features shifted into a glare. "You find out how humans make trap. You tell Karakash."

Harry nodded, blinking. How on Earth was he going to accomplish that? Instead he asked, "How will I find you?"

The river spirit had already turned away. "You call, I come." And with that, Karakash shot into the air in a flurry of dazzling color, and was gone.

* * *

"Mum, there's someone coming down the road," Ginny called from the front porch.

"That's nice, dear," Molly replied absently from where she was preparing lunch in the kitchen. Tonks, however, moved toward the front windows to get a look.

The Burrow was quiet this time of day; most of the Order members were either out on assignment or recuperating at their homes. Molly seemed to be on a mission to reclaim her house, while the Weasley brood, a skeleton crew consisting of Ginny, Ron, George, and Fred, were trying to find ways to escape the heat.

The three boys (and two extra brains) were in the back, Tonks had been told, dangling their feet off the pier in the pond.

Remus and Hermione, who both seemed to have taken up residence, were huddled together in a corner of the living room, discussing apparently heavy and dubious matters.

Tonks had just arrived not two minutes earlier, after finishing her late breakfast, hoping for a spot of news before heading in to work, only to find the place nearly empty.

She now squinted down the drive through the dusty screen door, and Ginny stood just outside, barefoot on the front porch. Rather than brush the stray hair out of her own eyes, Tonks simply shortened it.

Sure enough there was someone trudging down the road, hunched shape rippling in the heat, and they had just turned in at the Burrow's long drive. After a moment of observation, Tonks decided it was clearly a man, and he seemed to be drunk. She absently sidled out the front door to stand next to Ginny, staring intently. "What the hell…?"

Just as they were watching, the man paused for a moment, swaying, before abruptly collapsing in a heap.

Then it clicked. She recognized that person.

"_Harry_!" she gasped, and took off running across the gravel. Sounds of uproar followed behind her, but she was wholly focused on covering ground.

By the time she reached him, he'd dragged himself into a sitting position in the grass. "Harry! Harry, what—where have you—are you—are you hurt?"

"M' fine," he managed to slur. "It's okay, I'll be there in a minute… I just need a break, and then I'll get up…"

"Harry," she said again, more gently this time, and crouched next to him. He'd been reduced to bone and sinew, there was blood on his face, he was soaked clear through, and he hunched over his ribs as if they greatly pained him. She grabbed his shoulder, trying to get him to focus. "Come on Harry, talk to me."

"Tonks?" he asked, looking desperately confused. He blinked at her, eyes skittering, as if it required a massive force of will just to keep them open. "Where—oh, there's the Burrow. I thought I still had miles and miles… Why didn't we land next to the house? There's a pond right in the back, it would have been fine…"

Tonks tried to will away the consternation that flitted through her mind. He was babbling nonsense. "Harry, let's get you inside, okay?"

He nodded a bit uncoordinatedly, eyes drooping. "Inside'd be good. I need some _water_." This last was spoken with a vehemence that made Tonks recoil slightly.

"I think you got some water," she commented shakily, eyeing his sopping clothing.

He brightened slightly. "Oh yeah, I did get some water. He gave it to me." He seemed to be searching his pockets, as if he might find some there, and Tonks felt her heart jerk painfully.

"_Stupefy,_" she murmured quietly, and he slumped just as the rest of the crowd showed up. She just shook her head at the onslaught of questions, saying, "He's completely out of it. We need to move him to the house."

And so, like some strange funeral procession, they levitated Harry Potter's limp body. Even knocked out as he was, his fist still clutched what looked like a chair leg or a table leg with an iron grip. Slowly, like an honor guard, they all moved back toward the house, each thinking their own private thoughts about the boy who lived.

* * *

_The shuffle of footsteps on the sandstone floor caused Harry to snap his gaze upward, and he felt a wild rush of anger. He had given explicit instructions that he was not to be interrupted, barring the most pressing of emergencies. _

_He narrowed in on the figure who was practically hunched over in fear amongst the tall, dusty shelves. Long lengths of orange-red cloth billowed gently from the ceiling, tinting the light streaming in from above so that the room was washed in crimson._

_Harry thought it appropriate for his mood, and silently vowed that the man's head would roll, no matter what reason had brought him here. "What."_

"_Apologies, my Lord—"_

_Harry slipped menacingly around the table, which was strewn with ancient rolls of parchment, and hissed, "Did I not impress upon you that _no one_ was to disturb me? Do you value your life so little?"_

_The robed figure drew even further in upon himself, looking hard at the floor. "I—I understood, my Lord, but there has been… there has been a situation, my Lord…"_

_Harry wanted to strike the man for sheer thick incompetence. "Explain, you idiot, and be quick. You've so far given me very little reason not to kill you where you stand."_

_The man darted a glance up, and seemed to immediately regret it, swallowing hard. "It's Malfoy, my Lord. He has disappeared."_

_Harry straightened slightly. "Disappeared."_

_The man—Harry suddenly remembered him from the latest batch of initiates—nodded hesitantly._

_Harry's rage flared again, and suddenly his hand was around the man's throat, slamming him hard against the sandstone wall. His nails dug in, and the man's eyes bulged in fear. "If I have to ask you to elaborate _one_ more time, you will not be walking out of this place alive."_

_The man choked. "F-forgive me, my Lord! Lucius Malfoy, as you know, was aboard the Galloping Galleon this week—appa-apparently Harry Potter was also—ghk!"_

_Harry's grip had tightened of its own volition, and he forced his anger down so that the man could keep talking. _

_The man coughed. "Potter was also on board—Lucius had been admitted to see the boy. There was a fight in Potter's room, and by the time anyone else arrived, they were both gone."_

_Harry let the man down absently, his mind already leaping ahead. "How long ago was this?"_

"_Early yesterday, my Lord."_

_Malfoy was one of Harry's most trusted followers. He had liberated the man from Azkaban only a few weeks ago—there was no way Malfoy would keep the Potter boy without telling his master. But it was either that, or Potter had somehow… No. Impossible. He snapped his gaze back to the man in front of him, and snarled, "Why was I not informed of this yesterday?"_

"_I—forgive me, my Lord, I was held up at the border—"_

_Harry backhanded the man viciously, sending him sprawling to the floor. "Your sheer incompetence is astounding. Get out."_

_The man scrambled to his feet, wiping blood from his face, and left quickly._

_Harry turned back to his research, flexing his hands, and wished he had simply killed the man. He couldn't let his bloodlust go unsatisfied now. Someone would die today; that was for certain._

* * *

Harry jerked awake to the sun in his eyes.

Normally this would have been annoying at best, but today it was excruciating.

"Damn it…" he snarled thickly, rolling away from the window and clenching his eyes shut. It was his left eye—the one that Lucius had tried to curse. He lay still, allowing the sharp ache to recede in the relative dimness before daring to open his eyes.

For a moment he was wildly disoriented. It wasn't his room at Privet Drive, nor was it the guest room at Hogwarts, or the room on the ship—oh. It was the twins' room at the Burrow. He relaxed as the feeling of imminent danger passed.

Someone had set him up on the bed closest to the window. There was a thick, crocheted blanket over him, even though it appeared to be the middle of the afternoon, and he seemed to be wearing Ron's clothes.

The idea that someone had changed him made him a bit angry rather than embarrassed, and he grunted in annoyance. He sat up, giving his head a shake, and peered around.

"Wotcher, Sunshine," said an amused voice. Harry jerked in surprise—there was Tonks sprawled inelegantly in an overstuffed armchair by the door, reading a book titled, 'Windsurfing the Wizarding Way.' "I'm supposed to be watching you for any signs of life," she explained, grinning just a bit too widely.

"I'm alive," he agreed, eyeing her. _Just barely._ He felt as if he hadn't rested at all, and blamed most of it on his dream.

Where had it been? What was Voldemort doing?

Harry grasped for details—he remembered it had been dry…very dry. The only light had come from outside—there had been nothing in the place except rows and rows of scrolls. And there was something else unusual about it…

Sandstone. The whole place had been carved from sandstone.

This didn't help him very much, since he knew that sandstone was maddeningly common, but it was a start. If he could find places—wizarding places—that were carved out of the stuff… but he didn't know for certain that it wasn't a muggle location. He growled. So what _did_ he know?

He knew that Voldemort was a cranky bitch when he was doing research.

Harry rubbed his scar. _Damn Voldemort. Keep your temper tantrums to yourself, for once. _ Then he froze, looking warily at Tonks, who had settled for watching him rather than speaking, and said, "Prove who you are."

Tonks grinned, rolling her eyes, but swiftly morphed her face into one of her trademarks—the duckbill—before shifting back. "Very good, Harry," she said wryly. "But what were you planning on doing if I turned out to be an imposter? You haven't got your wand, you know. You just alerted a potential enemy to your suspicions."

"I don't need a wand," Harry said flippantly. Then he had to struggle to keep himself from slapping a hand over his mouth.

Tonks cocked an eyebrow at him. "Re-_eally_."

Harry settled for what he hoped was a vaguely superior look, and cracked his knuckles. "Got a mean right hook."

"Uhuh," Tonks smirked, unimpressed. She couldn't hold it long before it bloomed into a real smile. "It's good to have you back, Harry."

Harry's expression softened. "It's good to _be_ back." They both fell silent for a moment, grinning at each other. Harry could tell that it was taking every ounce of self-control that Tonks possessed to keep her from bombarding him with questions. The fact that she was simply waiting for him to speak filled him with a heady rush of gratitude. He knew a lot of people were going to want to hear the story, and he didn't fancy telling it more than once. Clearing his throat, he remembered to ask, "Er, so where is everyone else?"

She raised one graceful violet eyebrow. "Where do you think?"

"Downstairs talking about me, I expect," Harry said resignedly.

"I knew you were a sharp one," Tonks teased. "Even when they all kept telling me you was dumb as a box o' rocks, _I_ never stopped believing! Even when they said you couldn't think your way out of a paper—"

"Thank you, Tonks," Harry croaked good-naturedly. Whatever he might have said next was forgotten when he spotted a glass of water on the bedside table. He seized it, downing it in one long swig. The cold, sweet water rushing down his throat was indescribably exquisite

He set the empty glass down with a satisfied exhalation, and swung his feet around to the floor. "Reckon it's time to face the firing squad?" Despite his flippant tone, the idea filled him with dread.

"About that, Harry," Tonks said, tossing her book aside to rise. "Just a heads up—it's a mad house down there." Catching his dubious expression, she added, "It's not just the Order. There are ministry people and investigators and all sorts of riff-raff out on the drive."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "What for?"

She looked uneasy for a moment. "They've got questions. A lot of them."

"And the Weasleys—and Dumbledore just let them stay?"

"Even _he_ can't keep the ministry out of it this time," she said dryly.

"Great," Harry muttered, scrubbing the back of his head as he pushed open the door. He realized that he probably would have been angry with the old man for throwing his weight around anyway. "Where's my stuff?"

She gave him a quizzical look, following him down the stairs. "Your clothes are getting washed, I expect…"

Harry waved his hand dismissively. "What about…did you find anything in my pockets? My wand?"

"I'm sorry Harry… you didn't have your wand with you when you got here," she told him softly.

Harry's mind tripped over this bit of information—before he realized she thought he was talking about his phoenix-core wand, and hadn't recognized the table leg as such.

His question was answered for him when he stepped in to the kitchen, and the buzz of discussion ceased. A veritable sea of heads turned his way—how had they all fit inside the Burrow?—and Harry blanched. There was his blood wand, placed damningly in the middle of the table.

_This is not good._

Cornelius Fudge was the first voice to break the silence, casting his voice with gleeful bravado. "Ah, the man of the hour—how kind of you to join us!" He sounded downright friendly, but Harry knew better. Fudge could only be happy for one reason. He nailed Harry with a stern glance, but the effect was marred by his shining eyes. "I'm afraid you're in quite a bit of trouble, Mr. Potter."


	10. Welcome Back, Harry

CHAPTER 10

Dumbledore was at the man's shoulder as if midway between trying to reason with him and tackling him, and had ended up looming quite by accident. "Cornelius, you must know this is highly un—"

"_No_, Albus!" Fudge spat, eyes flashing and jowls trembling. "I will not have you interfering on this boy's behalf again. This time we've caught him red-handed, and justice will be done!"

The headmaster stepped back slowly, grave eyes flicking from the Minister to meet Harry's—in warning or apology, Harry could not tell.

Clearing his throat aggressively, the Minister pulled out a roll of parchment and snapped it open. "Mister Harry James Potter, under the assembled approval of the Wizengamot, you have been thus charged…"

Fudge began to rattle off a long list of offences, and Harry felt the cold weight of dread settle over him. He looked around at the small crowd gathered in the Burrow's kitchen. Some of them were watching Fudge read, but most eyes were locked on Harry. Dumbledore, Kingsley, Remus, the older Weasleys, McGonagall, Snape…

He couldn't read their expressions—they were stony and still. Were they accusing? Angry? Shocked? A part of him thought wildly that this had to be a dream.

Of course it was! He'd been a captive for days, and nearly killed—surely he wasn't being accused of being a criminal. Was the Ministry really going to lay the blame at his feet instead of actually finding out who was responsible?

Harry suddenly felt a wave of nausea at the idea that they had gotten it so horribly wrong, and that nothing useful was going to be done. As usual. He felt an insane urge to laugh, and swallowed reflexively.

It was hard to focus on what the Minister was saying—something about arson and vandalizing private property on the Galloping Galleon. Harry found himself watching the way little sprays of spit flew from the man's mouth, how his face flushed in patches of red and white, how his beady eyes focused so intently on what he was reading.

Harry shook his head slightly to clear it.

A hand touched his elbow and he jerked, heart racing, but it was just Tonks.

"Okay?" she mouthed silently, looking worried.

He nodded reflexively before frowning and opening his mouth to ask a question.

"Your friends are outside," she murmured, reading his mind. "Running interference on the reporters."

Harry swallowed, gaze darting to the windows. Indeed there appeared to be a swarm of people on the front drive. _Bloody effing brilliant._

"Am I _boring_ you, Mister Potter?" Fudge snapped, dragging Harry's attention back. "This is very serious business, young man. If you're not interested in hearing your charges, we could simply skip this farce and toss you into Azkaban right now—"

"Really, Minister Fudge!" Professor McGonagall's cry of outrage rang out over a swell of volume as everyone spoke up. "You go too far! We will do no such thing—and certainly not before we verify the truth of these accusations—"

"You doubt the truth?" Fudge blustered, waving a fistful of papers about. "I—we have proof—eyewitnesses, evidence from the scenes—"

"Undoubtedly, Minister," interrupted Snape, who was leaning darkly against the door like a misplaced shadow. "So let us get on with it."

Fudge dithered a moment in suppressed anger before turning back to fix Harry with a hard stare, as if to make certain he was listening attentively. Harry stared back, and Fudge finally commenced reading.

Harry didn't understand it. What leg did Fudge have to stand on? Wasn't he teetering on the brink of being kicked out of office? Harry didn't precisely know how ministers were appointed, but if this man still had even a month left in power, something was wrong. For that matter, what did he stand to gain from going after Harry? If anything—not that he'd spared it much thought—he would have expected the man to come knocking down Harry's door for endorsements to save his dying political career.

Not that Harry would ever do any such thing.

Pompous git.

And the Wizengamot? How had Fudge managed to get their support on this? Harry's gaze shifted to Dumbledore. The old man would know. Surely… surely they couldn't believe this was right.

Fudge's litany was coming to a close with the most serious charges—"one count of assault on a professor, one count of blood artifact manufacture, multiple counts of blood magic, and two counts of homicide—one suspected, and one confirmed—"

A cacophony had slowly grown in the room until this final pronouncement, when Harry could only shout, "_What?_" His mind spun with the impossibility of it all. He hadn't murdered anyone—he'd tried to save Lucius' life, for Merlin's sake, and the 'attack' on Professor McGonagall (who was in the room and looked quite as shocked as he did) had been in self-defense….

"Don't play coy, Potter," Fudge said, growing red in the face. "You snuck aboard a private vessel—"

"_Snuck—?"_ Harry nearly choked.

"—without an invitation, where you then proceeded to murder a member of the staff—"

Harry gave a wild laugh of utter shock and disbelief.

"You don't remember?" Fudge asked patronizingly, and tut-tutted. "Bhutanese Mountain Trolls are registered Magical Persons—"

"Staff? Is that what they're calling slaves these days?" Harry asked, furious. It was still raw in his mind: the desperation, the horror—the hot spurt of blood.

"—says here that you killed one with a handful of old nails, I believe—"

Someone gasped, "That _actually happened_?"

"—and of course there's the guest, who was last seen entering your rooms, just before he mysteriously disappeared—"

"Do your little papers say who that 'guest' was? Have you thought to check _Azkaban_, where he was supposed to be a permanent resident?" Unnoticed, small paper items began to ignite all over the room.

"If you didn't _kill_ this person, Mister Potter, then why don't you tell us where he is?"

"I don't know."

Fudge barked a triumphant laugh. "Of course not."

Harry drew a slow breath through his nose. _I won't lose my temper. I will not lose my temper in front of all these people._ The tablecloth nearest him began to blacken and curl, while a tremor ran through the dishes in their cabinets.

A few of the Order members began to look around in growing consternation, but Fudge remained oblivious and gestured at the blood wand still sitting in the middle of the table. "And how do you explain this?"

"That's the only reason I'm here instead of at Voldemort's feet."

"It's an abomination!" Fudge spat immediately. "For this offense alone I could bury you in Azkaban so deeply you'd forget what the sky looked like!"

"I. Didn't. Know," Harry gritted out, anger constricting his throat. _You cannot attack the bloody Minister of Magic, _he reminded himself. His hands clenched. "How could I know that? What should I have done?"

Fudge frowned. "You—you—"

"_Tell me_," Harry demanded, unaware that he'd taken a half step forward. "I didn't have a wand! I couldn't fight them with my fists! They—I was left for days—" he faltered. "You tell me what I was supposed to do in that situation, because somehow I missed the pamphlet about what proper procedure calls for in the event that you find yourself abducted, locked up, starved, beaten, dehydrated, unarmed, and about to face the psychopathic right-hand man of the _other_ psychopath who wants you captured but doesn't really care how many pieces you come in! Tell me, _Fudge_!"

Fudge worked his mouth silently for a moment, before pointing a finger and waving it at Harry. "You—you're an accomplished liar—we all know that! But this time we have hard evidence, eyewitnesses, _proof_—youwon't talk your way out of it like you usually do!" He gestured to some of his aides, who stepped forward with sheaves of documents.

It felt as if the world had begun to spin, and a buzzing sound rose in Harry's ears. _It would be so easy_, part of him snarled—a snap of his fingers and the man's face would light up like a torch.

"What do you have to say for yourself now, Mister Potter?" Fudge pressed, waving what appeared to be testimonies in Harry's face.

That was the last straw.

Dumbledore stepped forward. "Cornelius, I really must ask that you—"

Harry struck the papers out of the man's hand, grabbed him by the front of his robes, and yanked him close. "You're a sorry little excuse for a human being, who's sad and bitter because he's a waste of space and a professional fuck-up, and the public knows it! You're a fucking idiot and your incompetence nearly lost us the war before it even started, and you've decided the best way for you to gain back some shred of self-worth is to go after me. And you know what the sad thing is? I'm just a school-age teenager, and I would mop the floor with your stupid, fat face. If we were alone, I would beat you to a bloody fucking _pulp_." The papers strewn across the floor ignited with a whistling crack.

"Merlin's beard!" Fudge gasped weakly, his beady eyes white all the way around.

"You knew Voldemort was back and instead of doing anything, you slandered me; you knew about Umbridge and the dementors, and instead of disciplining her you had me tried. _Now_ instead of going after the people that abducted me, you're accusing me of vandalism and _murder_! You're _done_, Fudge. I'm going to ruin you, and that's a promise!"

"Harry!" Tonks said from behind him, and Harry felt as if he'd been doused in cold water. The wild, angry strength washed away and he realized how close he'd come to carrying out his violent impulse. He shoved at Fudge, and the man scrambled back.

Dumbledore moved quickly to Harry's side, fixing him with an piercing stare before turning to Tonks and saying quietly, "Miss Tonks, if you would please take Harry—" Tonks was already nodding, taking Harry by the arm. "The back, I should think," the old man added with a wink, before turning to sort out the disarray of the crowd and the shell-shocked minister.

"Come on Harry," Tonks said, barely audible over the din, and tugged him out the back door.

The sunlight and summery air was a balm on Harry's fraying nerves, and he flopped down into the overgrown grass.

Tonks moved to join him, before abruptly rising again with a sharp, "Oy!" Before Harry even knew what was happening, she'd fired off a curse, and a loud yelp sounded as a figure scurried back around the side of the house and out of sight.

"Reporters, bloody buggers…" Tonks muttered, pocketing her wand with a scowl before taking a seat next to him.

"Sorry about all that," Harry muttered, desperately ashamed and embarrassed.

"About what? That reporter? They're always—"

"No, I mean the… well, the burning and the ranting… I just lost control…"

"Hey," Tonks interrupted, fixing him with a look. "I'll bet you two weeks' salary that everyone in that room thought he had it coming."

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. "Yeah, but I should be better than that. Little kids have temper tantrums. Accidental magic at my age?" He shook his head disgustedly and looked at the sky. Storm clouds darkened the horizon, but the sky above was a deep cornflower blue. A flock of white birds crossed his view. "Although I can't quite bring myself to be sorry about shouting at that idiot."

"I probably would have hit him." She patted his shoulder before lying back with a huff. "Dumbledore'll sort it out."

Harry looked at his hands. There was more to it than that—every time he lost his temper, he felt just a bit more violent. Every time, he felt a little less in control of himself. What if, next time…?

"I don't know what they expected you to do!" Tonks suddenly blurted, sitting up again. "I mean, charging you with—with arson, underaged magic, vandalism, criminal mischief… for defending yourself? When your life was in danger? It's a joke! What's the alternative? Die? It's like the dementor incident all over again. You know, if it had been Aurors putting down Death Eater attacks or even domestic disturbances, they wouldn't go after us for this stuff. He's taking advantage of the system, and I don't know how the Wizengamot can _possibly_ go along with it!"

"How does everyone already know where I was, anyway? I hardly know what happened myself."

"Well, about an hour after you showed up out of the blue, we received an owl from the _Galloping Galleon's _legal rep with this laundry list of charges. I s'pose they also sent a copy to the DMLE, because Fudge showed up not long after. Unfortunately this coincided with a case leak about your _other_ little fiasco…"

"And he just couldn't resist?" Harry supplied flatly.

"That's about the shape of it," Tonks agreed. She rolled her eyes. "Leave it to Fudge to act on little to no evidence where_ you're_ concerned, but when he has a veritable mountain of evidence for anything else, he does nothing. Useless bloody wanker."

That startled a laugh out of him, to his amazement "Wow."

She grinned ruefully. "Sorry, Harry. It's just hard for me to work for the Ministry when everything is getting so corrupted, and people I care about are being chewed up by the idiots in charge. You know, I grew up wanting to serve my country, root out injustice… help make it better…." She met his gaze, and he frowned thoughtfully.

She shrugged, examining a bit of breeze-tossed fluff, before letting it go. "But it's all gone to shite now. And I don't know how it _can _be fixed."

Harry was uncomfortably aware that he'd often entertained the same thoughts.

"Meanwhile every Death Eater we catch gets kicked right back out like we're on some kind of rotation. And even if we get rid of You-Know-Who and all his followers, his ideas will still live on, and the Ministry won't change. Sometimes I think…"

Harry waited, feeling anxious, but not quite sure why. "What?"

She opened her mouth in a half smile and gave a short sigh, as if trying to decide whether to go on. Then she shook her head. "It's nothing—just a stupid little thought."

Harry frowned and was about to try and convince her to talk, but she beat him to the punch.

"So we all know what the charges against you are, but what really happened to you, Harry?"

Harry, feeling like a weight had been lifted from him, told her. He began with the fight out by the field, where he'd been overwhelmed, before waking up in the engine room of the ship. He told her about his captor, and how the man had hidden his face, but everyone seemed to know him. He talked about the prisoners, and the deal that had been made between Azkaban and the ship, and how they had all been forced to fight. He told her about how he'd tried to escape, before building a wand with his own blood.

He didn't talk about Toliman, or the man's advice. He let Tonks think he'd made the wand before his fight with the troll—that the wandless magic they'd all heard about had just been a trick. He didn't want the whole world to know that there was something wrong with him just yet. And, as he'd sworn to himself, he left out the part about the apple, too.

"And then?" she asked.

"And then Lucius came, and we fought," he finished tiredly. "And I won."

Tonks was silent for a long time. Her voice was quiet, and her eyes free of judgment when she finally asked, "Did you kill him, Harry?"

A lump lodged in Harry's throat, so that he could only shake his head at first. "No, he… he was alive when I left him." How he hoped that was the truth.

She gripped the back of his neck, leaning over to make sure he met her eyes. "You did good. Okay?"

Harry nodded, and was surprised to discover he felt just a little bit better. "Thanks, Tonks."

She smiled, satisfied. "So there's one thing I'm curious about—how _did_ you get away?"

Harry's mouth went dry. The truth? The truth… Yes, it was probably a good idea to tell someone what was happening to him. He had his proof of concept—he'd gone through to the other side twice, hadn't he? Unless this was just a particularly persistent brand of crazy… Right. He _should_ tell her. She might know something that could help.

He opened his mouth. "Accidental apparition." _Damn! You're a coward, Potter._

Tonks' eyes sparkled. "Wow, that's brilliant, Harry! Not to mention lucky."

"Yeah," Harry breathed a laugh, while mentally kicking himself. "I'm not sure what I would've done otherwise."

To Harry's relief, someone came out the back door at that moment, sparing his flimsy story any further scrutiny.

"Harry," Remus called gently from the doorway. "Professor Dumbledore asked me to fetch you if you're up to…"

"I'm fine, Professor," Harry said hastily, standing up and brushing his trousers off. He offered Tonks a hand, and she accepted it with a grin.

"Why thank you, Mister Potter."

"Not at all, Miss Tonks," he returned very stuffily.

Remus' eyes flicked between them for a moment, before giving Harry a shadow of a smile and angling his head toward the door.

Harry followed after him, mentally steeling himself. Sooner or later this day from hell would end; he just had to take things one step at a time and have faith that eventually things would work out the way they were supposed to.

"No combustion this time." Tonks poked him in the back.

Despite himself, Harry cracked a smile, and his anxiety eased a little.

When they entered the kitchen, it was to find that the ministry officials had all cleared out. Fudge was nowhere to be seen, and for that Harry heaved a sigh. The Order was standing in a cluster, and his sense of wellbeing went cold at the weary expression that Dumbledore favored him with.

"Ah, Harry," the old wizard said, looking as if he were struggling for optimism. "The Minister has agreed to drop all but the most serious charges, and will hold off on any incarceration until a formal investigation has been completed. In exchange… with the assurances of the Hogwarts staff that you will be carefully monitored at all times… I'm afraid you have been placed under wand probation."

* * *

"_Wand probation_?" Hermione squealed later that night. They were once again huddled on the beds in Ron's room. All the lights in the house were out, and the only illumination came from the eerie light of the brains' fish tank. Since the brains lacked eyes of any sort, Harry wasn't really clear on what they needed a light for.

The boys shushed her simultaneously, and she hunched in apology. "But _really_, Harry, how could they? How are you going to do school work?"

"Or fight for his life, let's not forget that one," Ron put in, eyeing her in a surly manner.

"Apparently," Harry sighed, "the instructors will have a spare wand on hand for each of my classes, and I have to check it out and turn it in after class is over."

"Complete rubbish," Hermione scoffed.

"You're gonna get ganked, mate," Ron said, patting him sympathetically on the shoulder.

"Well, they'll try for sure," Harry agreed absently, turning the river spirit horn over and over in one hand. He'd found it earlier in the day when Mrs. Weasley had been doing laundry—and had nearly tossed the bit of horn outside from where she'd found it in his trouser pocket, thinking it was just junk. How anyone could think such a thing escaped him—it was a bit rough looking, but the ridges of honey-brown horn had a pearly quality to them, and a cool heavy weight that felt reassuring in his hand.

"What are you going to do, Harry?" Hermione asked, chewing on her bottom lip. "They didn't let you keep that blood wand, did they?"

"Er," Harry said hesitantly. "Officially, no, but both Dumbledore _and _Snape told me not to let anyone else get a hold of it, so I'm supposed to be hanging onto it until I have time to destroy it myself."

"You _are_ going to destroy it, right?" she pressed.

"Well, I don't know, I…"

"Harry! You can't walk around with something like that!" she said, looking horrified.

He frowned, irritated. "I don't see why not. It's my blood, isn't it? I could understand if I'd used somebody else's, but it's mine!" And his pride in his creation hadn't diminished, though he wouldn't tell anyone that.

But Hermione wasn't finished. "Harry, there's a reason blood magic is so illegal! It's dangerous!"

Harry struggled not to roll his eyes, but to his surprise Ron spoke up to agree with her. "She's right, mate. My dad said using someone's blood will key an object to that person—if that wand were used against you, the spells would be way more… well, potent."

Sighing, Harry pocketed the Horn. "Look, I'll do some research, then. But I'm not just going to throw it out or smash it to bits. That wand saved my life, and right now it's the only one I've got." He stared defiantly at the two of them.

Hermione's eyes suddenly looked too bright, and she lunged forward without warning to grip him in a fierce hug. "Every time we lose sight of you, someone is trying to kill you," she mumbled into his shoulder.

"But they haven't managed it yet," he wheezed, carefully hugging her back.

"And you'll be at the school all alone for almost a _month_," she said, pulling away and dashing a hand across her eyes.

"Hagrid'll be there," Harry assured her, amazed and confused. He tried to lighten the mood. "He's not bad in a fight, I've heard."

Apparently this was the wrong thing to say, because Harry could see Hermione's imagination running away with her, and her face twisted up all over again.

"Oh Hermione, it's Harry," Ron said, patting her arm. "He always gets out of scrapes. He'll be fine, won't you Harry?"

Harry watched them both, and suddenly perceived what a strain his abduction had put on them. They had always been there for him, and with him when he got into trouble. Except for this time. This time they'd had to simply sit and wait, while he was in danger.

He nodded, trying for a confident smile. "Of course I will."

Hermione laughed wetly, wiping her eyes again. "I know I'm just being stupid…"

"Oy, that's you, all right. Stupid as the day is long," Ron teased her.

Harry watched them, smiling slightly.

He would have plenty to keep him busy, but three weeks without them would be a long time.

* * *

In the morning, Harry awoke with a start. The sky outside was still mostly dark, but the shapes outside were beginning to take on the crisp, gray lines that hinted at existence if not light.

The horizon was a dusky silhouette against the deep sky, and Harry could almost imagine he had woken up on the Other side. Peeking out the window at the pond in the backyard, he was able to set aside the sudden creeping worry in favor of itching curiosity.

"_You call—I come,_" Karakash had said.

Harry found his footsteps taking him stealthily down the stairs and out the back door—wincing at the creaking screen. The cool grass felt good on his bare feet, and the night air lifted his hair from his forehead.

Now that he was outside, the rustling weeds and rippling water of the pond were somewhat eerie, but Harry shoved those errant feelings aside. He'd dealt with worse than the dark, after all.

He walked out to the old wooden dock, and lowered himself to a seat at the end, feet dangling over the dark water. He sat there for a long time in the silent predawn. Nothing made a sound except the fitful breeze, and he could hardly even tell how close the water actually was, it was so dark.

He felt a sudden chill as he imagined the creatures that surely waited just on the Other side. He could picture the face of a dementor staring back at him from the dark glassy surface, and had an overpowering urge to leap to his feet and sprint as far and as fast as he could away from the pond.

He cleared his throat, breaking his own spell with the jarring sound. After another second, he said, "Karakash."

Two minutes later, he repeated it, louder. "_Karakash_."

Another minute passed, during which his irritation steadily grew. "Karakash!" He leaned over the water, acutely incensed. "Damn it, you great bloody lying sack of worm bogies, where the hell are you?"

A whooshing sound reached his ears just before a flurry of wings assaulted his face, and he yelped in surprise, lost his balance, and tipped off the end of the dock. The dark water seemed to reach up for him, and with a familiar blinding rush, he slipped across the divide.

He came up sputtering in shock, and hauled himself up out of the neon-blue water to splay amongst the dark weeds at the bank. It was amazing how he didn't have any skin here, and yet still managed to _feel_ wet. "Ugh," he muttered, thoroughly displeased to be here again so soon, and wondering what had attacked him. "Where the hell are you, worm?"

Maybe it just took the river spirit a long time to travel all the way from China. That seemed rather likely. Harry tried to imagine how long it might take, but since he had no idea how fast Karakash could fly, it was difficult to estimate. "Karakash!" he called once more, just in case the worm hadn't heard him from the other side.

There was no immediate response, and Harry sighed before climbing to his feet. "I guess it couldn't hurt to wait for—" He choked on the rest of his sentence when he turned toward the Burrow. Sitting atop the glowing structure of wards and little spells and artifacts was a monstrous ethereal pheasant the size of a tool shed. "Bloody hell!" he blurted.

"I beg your pardon?" the pheasant replied, looking as affronted as a giant bird could.

"What—who—why—?"

"My, aren't you the eloquent one," the bird chuffed, massive head twitching to the side to get a better look at him from her high perch atop what appeared to be Ron's room. Her tail feathers trailed up over the top of the roof and draped out of sight.

"Sorry," Harry replied reflexively, staring up at her. "I just… who are you and why are you sitting on top of my friend's house?"

The pheasant chuffed again, feathered breast fluffing. "I _am_ your friend's house, silly boy."

Harry gaped. "What?"

"Guardian spirit?" she tried, watching him. "Soul of the house? Poor dear, you really haven't got much of a background in magical lore, have you?"

Harry felt mildly insulted, but his curiosity got the better of him. "So you, er, _are_ the Burrow…"

She fluffed up further. "I _protect _the Burrow, and all inside it."

Harry blinked. "Well… thank you."

"You're quite welcome, dear."

Harry squinted slightly, thinking the pheasant—guardian—reminded him an awful lot of Molly Weasley. "Are there a lot of you… guardians around?"

"Only in the oldest, most well lived in places. The Burrow has existed in some form for more than a century, you know."

"Ah," Harry said, mind whirling. It was times like these when he really doubted his sanity, and whether all this was really just some fantastic illusion. "So do you guardians ever… talk to each other?"

"Oh yes," the pheasant replied. "Why Lovegood Tower is a stone's throw away from here—lovely fellow, even if he is an owl."

"So you lot can move around as you please?"

She bobbed her head. "To a certain extent, yes. I'm usually here when my brood is."

Harry cocked an eyebrow at the metaphor. Odd. "Have you happened to see a river spirit around lately?"

The pheasant cocked her head the other way. "I'm sorry dear, I haven't—not since you were here last."

Harry silently cursed Karakash again. Then a thought struck him. "What about the pond? Do you know its name?"

"Indeed I do, but she is rather young, and I'm not sure how much help she'll be to you. Her name is Little Muddy."

Harry sighed. "Little Muddy? That's not very…"

"If you'd like to come up with something more eloquent, you're quite welcome," the bird sniffed. "They're Weasleys, not poets."

Shaking his head, Harry turned back to the water's edge and crouched down. He wondered briefly if he had to stick his face in like Karakash had done to summon the river Derwent. "Little Muddy," he called. After a few seconds he decided he really needed to read up on this summoning business, and awkwardly settled on his knees to crouch over the water. Leaning down, he dipped his nose in, trying not to inhale anything, and murmured, "Little Muddy…"

He immediately heard a soft 'plip,' and from the middle of the pond a little head stuck straight up, staring at him.

Harry straightened. "Hello there."

The creature was gone in a flash, and before he knew it, had swum all the way to the shore to get a better look at him. She had a clever little face like a gecko's, and a sleek, scaled body shaped like a river otter. "Hi," she said in a tiny, child-like voice.

"Are you Little Muddy?"

"Yes," she said very firmly. "You kin call me—you kin call me Mud, though."

"Okay, Mud," Harry agreed, trying desperately not to laugh at the charming little creature. "You can call me Harry. How old are you, Mud?"

She looked to the side, rolling her eyes in obvious reluctance. "Not very old."

"Well that's okay, I'm not very old either. Hey Mud, can I ask you a question?"

"Okay!" she agreed, brightening.

"I was wondering… how fast can a river spirit fly?"

"Oh, really, really fast! Super fast. I can't fly that fast, b'cause I'm just a pond, though. Sometimes I go to play with—with the creeks but they're really fast n' I can't really keep up."

"I'm sorry about that," Harry said sympathetically. Who knew water spirits could have self-esteem issues?

"It's okay," Mud said, crawling up to settle next to his knee. "I kin play with the Weazes, so it's okay."

"That's good," Harry said, and couldn't help patting her smooth little head. She seemed pleased by the gesture, if a little surprised. "So if I called a river spirit, he should be here by now, right?"

She nodded, and shrugged her scaly little shoulders. "Prolly. Maybe you did it wrong, or maybe—"

She stiffened at the same time that Harry felt a breath of cool wind on the back of his neck. "Damn!" he murmured, rising to a crouch. Mud darted back into her pond with a squeak and a splash. "Dementors _here_?"

The massive pheasant was shifting on her perch agitatedly, feathers rising in a surprisingly threatening display. "You're a beacon for them, lad," she told him anxiously, watching the looming darkness.

"What? How?" Harry sputtered, feeling the temperature drop rapidly as the wind kicked up.

The pheasant ignored his question. "You'd best clear out of here, dear. I'll take care of things on this side—"

And then it was too late for any more discussion, because the shrieking black shadows were closing in from both sides of the house. _Merlin, there's so many!_ Harry thought, stumbling backwards into the water. And there were other things as well, crawling things, slithering things—some slick and black, and some pasty white with long grasping fingers. Where had they all come from? How did they know he was here?

"Go, lad!" the pheasant commanded, launching from her perch to land in a whirlwind of feathers, hackles raised.

There was something else, behind the mass of encroaching blackness—a swift, fleet shape that lay into the monsters like some kind of hellhound. Harry's eyes darted, trying to track its movements. It was…

It was a wolf. He realized he'd seen it once before. Was it following him, or—?

"Boy! Go!"

Harry flung himself backward just as skeletal hands reached for him.

He burst out the other side, and gasped in shock at the bitterly cold water. "Hah!" The pond had turned to icy slush, and was freezing over even as he struggled toward the edge. "God—damned—dementors!" he bit out, shivering uncontrollably as he flung himself onto the grass, taking bits of ice with him. Somehow, he knew that with just a little more power, they might have come through after him. He lay panting and shivering, and watched vapor rise from the frozen pond while the summer sun began to peak up over the horizon.

He'd hardly recovered his breath before he was assailed once again by bundle of pointy joints and feathers. He jolted up in surprise, and the shape gave a loud screech. "Hedwig?"

The owl calmed down enough to land on his lap and squawk in reply, boring into his eyes with her own yellow ones. She looked distinctly ruffled, and it was all Harry could do not to laugh. "And where have you been, girl?"

She looked fit to fly off right then, she was so angry, and Harry hurriedly drew his arms out of range of her nipping beak. "Ah!—all right—I'm sorry Hedwig, that wasn't very funny. You must have been looking for me all week, huh?"

She went still, regarding him dolefully, and he chuckled sympathetically as he stroked her downy feathers. "I am sorry, girl. I was behind a fidelius charm—I'm not surprised you couldn't find me. I'll bet you're hungry, eh?"

Hedwig twittered, her mood already grudgingly improved.

"Come on, pretty bird, let's go find you something to eat." He rose to his feet with his owl on his arm, and cast a last glance at the frozen pond, hoping it would thaw out before anyone noticed. "Sorry, Mud!"

He distinctly heard a tiny, sleepy voice say, "_S'okay, Harry."_

Harry shook his head, and wondered what it was like to be normal.

* * *

The last few days Harry spent at the Burrow were a tense affair. The weather was lovely, and there was a constant stream of visitors and pickup games of Quidditch and wonderful dinners outside, but… there was still no word or sign of the missing patriarch. When Harry first found out that Arthur had been gone since before he'd been abducted, he felt like a spectacular heel for not knowing.

"It's okay, Harry," Hermione had told him. "No one knew anything was out of the ordinary until he didn't come home that night—you couldn't have known."

"Why didn't anyone say anything to me?"

She shrugged uncomfortably. "We—well, Ron, that is—didn't want it to seem like he wasn't happy to have you back. It's been really hard on him, though."

The only thing that kept the Weasleys from going into a collective panic was the family clock—Arthur's hand wasn't pointed at 'Mortal Peril' or 'Dead,' but it couldn't seem to decide on anything else either.

It wasn't until the last day that Ron finally broached the subject with Harry. They were outside in the orchard—the twins and Ginny were playing some ridiculous game that involved trying to nail each other with the still-green apples from across the pond. Harry could almost hear Mud's delight, and so he was a bit distracted when Ron, leaning against the apple tree next to him, said, "Hey Harry."

"Yeah?"

"When you were on…that ship," he began, eyes downcast. Harry immediately straightened, and Ron looked at him. "You didn't… happen to hear anything, or see any signs of my dad, did you? Was he there?"

Harry was overcome with a sick wave of guilt, sadness, and impotent anger. He shook his head, and wished he'd known before—maybe he could have done something. If Arthur had been on that ship with him… "I'm sorry, Ron."

Ron just nodded silently and went back to watching Ginny and the twins. Hermione, sitting cross-legged in the grass nearby, looked up at them both with concern, and Harry didn't know what else to say.

But the pit of bitter rage that had taken up residence in his chest fanned just a little brighter.

Later that evening, after dinner was cleared away and people had drifted off hither and yon, Harry was sitting at the kitchen table and waiting for Dumbledore to arrive. His trunk was packed and currently serving as a footrest, and Ron and Hermione sat nearby discussing something in low voices—Harry couldn't be bothered to try and listen.

He was too busy thinking. A curious thing was going on in his mind, and it had been spurned on by the Daily Prophet article that lay discarded in front of him. Despite the fact that Fudge had agreed to drop most of the charges against him, somehow the details had still leaked out to the press. Wild and out of control, they called him. Dangerous, willful—taking the law into his own hands, they said. A vigilante. If the article earlier in the summer had leaned heavily on the idea, these new ones all but proclaimed it as fact.

Apparently, Harry went out and night and hunted people down.

He twiddled with the edge of the paper, not really looking at it, but staring off into his own mindscape. Yes, something like an idea was forming in his head, or maybe it was more of a decision. He was tired, and angry, and disgusted. Everything was going wrong, and no one was doing anything about it.

He thought about Tonks' bitter words, and further back to his conversation with the grizzly bear animagus, Toliman Hughes. He thought about Fudge, and the Wizengamot. Voldemort, and his Death Eater followers, and all the imitators flooding the papers. Someone needed to do something.

His eyes flicked back to the paper under his fingers.

_Vigilante_.

He tapped it once and watched the embers spread.


	11. Drinks with Dumbledore

Chapter 11

It was dark outside when Harry came back in through the back door. Dumbledore had finally arrived and was sitting at the kitchen table sipping a cup of tea and looking (to Harry's eyes) slightly put out at Molly's fussing.

"Ah! Harry, there you are," the headmaster exclaimed upon spotting him, pushing away his teacup and rising with suspicious haste.

"Harry, dear, what on earth have you been doing?" Molly asked in a chastising tone while simultaneously trying to offer Dumbledore a buttered scone, which Dumbledore was politely, if futilely, declining.

Harry looked down at his sopping wet, muddy clothes and hedged, "Er… I left a sweater outside—" Then, realizing he hadn't come in with anything in his hands, amended, "That is, I thought I had. But I guess I didn't. And then I sort of fell in the pond."

It was lame, he knew, but it would have been somewhat difficult to explain that he'd really been trying to convince a certain young pond spirit to travel to Hogwarts so he would have her help in figuring out this Other side business. Without a way to contact Karakash—yet—he'd realized having an emissary of sorts would be much better than just trying to wing it all alone.

Mud had finally agreed to the journey, but warned him it would take her 'a while,' and that the pond at the Burrow would dry up in her absence.

"Sorry Mrs. Weasley," he added, looking at each of them sheepishly. "Professor."

"Well, go on and change," Mrs. Weasley said, exasperated. "We'll just wait for you out here."

"Do be quick about it, Harry," Dumbledore added in a genial tone.

Harry had to hide a smirk as Molly once again accosted the headmaster with a plate of biscuits.

He changed hastily, grabbing someone's wand off the nightstand—Ron's, he thought—to dry the dirty clothes as best he could. The mud was still there, but at least now he wouldn't get the entire contents of his trunk soaked. He briefly wondered why Dumbledore or Mrs. Weasley hadn't simply spelled his clothes clean, but his intuition told him they might be using the opportunity to exchange words.

He made his way quietly back down the stairs, hesitating just in the shadows of the hallway leading to the kitchen.

It appeared that Dumbledore was saying something quietly reassuring, while Molly nodded and stared at the table. Harry hadn't noticed before how her hands shook slightly, or how her hair seemed to escape its bounds more than usual. How the skin around her eyes was tight, and the angle of her shoulders slumped. But Dumbledore talked, and Harry watched as something—hope? faith?—seemed to seep back into her, and she lifted up just a little.

Harry swallowed a lump in his throat and tried to push aside something bitter. He wished that Dumbledore could be that person for him. The unfailing pillar of hope, a shining light in the sea of darkness. But Harry didn't believe in the old man anymore, not like Molly Weasley did.

Not the way he used to.

Dumbledore patted Molly on the shoulder, eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles, and Harry backtracked a bit so that he could clomp loudly down the stairs to announce his presence.

"Are you ready, Harry?" Dumbledore asked him when he entered the kitchen.

"Yeah—I've just got to say goodbye to everybody."

It took only moments before everyone at the Burrow was cramming into the entryway to see him off. Fred and George put on a show of melodramatically hugging him and weeping as if they'd never see him again, before slipping him a fat little journal stuffed with loose parchments and drawings. He'd been talking with them on and off about his interest in spellsmithing, and felt a surge of excitement at what had to be their own scratchings on the subject. He nodded his heartfelt thanks, and they winked in unison.

Ginny gave him a hug and a grin, saying, "Take a real vacation for a while, Harry."

"I keep trying to," he said cheekily.

Charlie was there as well, and shook his hand warmly, as did Remus, who made him promise to write if he needed anything.

Molly drew him into a suffocating hug, but he didn't really mind—he thought she needed it more than he did, and hugged her back. Just before he drew away, he whispered fiercely, "I'll do whatever I can to help, Mrs. Weasley." She kissed him on the cheek, and he could see tears in her eyes before she moved aside.

"See you in September, mate," Ron said. His expression was subdued, and Harry could only meet his eyes, silently conveying his solidarity.

Hermione was last, and her hug was rather desperate, but her eyes were dry. "Be safe, Harry," she murmured.

And then they were out the door.

Dumbledore floated Harry's trunk along behind them, humming a quiet counterpoint to the rhythm of their steps on the gravel. Harry cleared his throat. He was fairly certain this was the real Dumbledore, but it couldn't hurt to be too careful. "D'you mind proving your identity, Professor?"

"Hm, excellent, excellent Harry," Dumbledore replied, a chuckle in his voice. "Ask me a question, then."

"Favorite music."

"Chamber. Although I could have lifted that answer off of my chocolate frog card, I believe," the old man said, tapping the side of his nose.

"All right. What did you tell me you saw in the Mirror?"

"Ah, myself—with a new pair of wool socks. One can—"

"—never have enough socks," Harry finished, smiling slightly. "End of summer vacation plans?"

"The Phi Phi Islands, off the coast of Thailand." Dumbledore paused. "I dare say my memory isn't what it used to be—did I truly mention that to you?"

"No, I was just curious," Harry admitted. Wondering what the headmaster could possibly do in Thailand, he added offhandedly, "Reckon they have pretty good surfing there?"

"Indeed they do," Dumbledore said with an air of great certainty.

Harry squinted, trying to digest this dubious mental image.

"Harry," the headmaster said after a moment. His voice was solemn, in sharp contrast with the lighthearted tone of before. "Although Miss Tonks has given us a rather rudimentary version of events, based on your discussion, I would like to go over them in further detail with you. Would you be agreeable to talking in my office—?"

"No," Harry said without thinking. The last time he'd been in the headmaster's office had been right after Sirius had— well, he'd completely trashed the place. The idea of going there now, and sitting quietly in front of the massive desk among all those shiny little knickknacks and ancient books, like a chastised student—no, he couldn't do it. "That is—I mean, could we go to the Hog's Head or something instead?"

Dumbledore's beard twitched suspiciously. "I suppose that would be acceptable. After all, I make a point of never turning down the offer of a free drink." Before Harry could protest the old man's trickery, Dumbledore grasped him by the shoulder, and they disappeared with a sharp 'crack.'

The Hog's Head was nearly deserted at this hour, and if it weren't for the few low burning lamps, Harry might have thought the place had been closed for weeks. Cobwebs clung to the darkened corners, and dust made haphazard patterns over all but the most heavily trafficked areas.

"Abe," Dumbledore greeted the barkeep as they settled on a pair of stools up front.

"Albus," the other man grunted darkly.

Harry frowned after the man as he puttered around with bottles and glasses behind the bar. He felt a flash of recognition, but it faded after a moment, and Harry soon put it out of his mind. "Professor—not that I'm complaining—but why am I going back to the castle instead of the Dursleys'?"

The barkeep placed a pair of dusty butterbeers in front of them. "Thank you, Abe," Dumbledore murmured, before answering Harry. "I afraid that your relatives are still missing, my boy."

Harry paused mid-swig to give the headmaster an incredulous look. "Still? And… no one is worried about this?"

"It is quite worrisome," Dumbledore agreed. "The blood enchantments on Number 4 have been malfunctioning, as I'm sure you noticed, since the evening before Professor McGonagall attacked you in your living room."

"Then—" Harry swallowed. There was no love lost between him and the Dursleys, but… "Does that mean—are they dead?"

"I do not believe so," Dumbledore replied with a puzzled frown. "They are alive, according to several of my own tracking devices. No, there is something else interfering, a disassociation that I believe could only occur if—"

"They didn't think of themselves as the Dursleys…" Harry mumbled, mind awhirl. "The protections are tied to them—they must have been abducted and then obliviated; set loose somewhere…"

Dumbledore gave him a tight smile. "Very good, Harry. Yes, that is what I fear. A flaw in the enchantments which, unfortunately, I had not considered fifteen years ago."

Harry sat up a little straighter. "What if that's what happened to Mr. Weasley? That's why the Weasleys' clock knows he's not dead, but not where he is—he doesn't know he's Arthur Weasley anymore…"

Dumbledore's eyes grew weary. "A distinct possibility."

"We need to find them! This is all connected—first the Dursleys disappear, defenses at the house go down, McGonagall disguised as you tries to attack me and I manage to tie her up, which is why she didn't go missing later—then another of your doppelgangers shows up right around the time that Mr. Weasley disappeared—" Harry's thoughts raced ahead, while Dumbledore watched him intently. "These copies of you were being controlled, you said, by some artifact—whoever controlled them either worked for my abductor, or they _were_ him…."

He thought back, trying to remember any similarities in speech or fighting style that might indicate a single operator, but his encounter with the second doppelganger was too brief. However… "The first one spoke a little bit more like how McGonagall might. I could almost imagine the second one as Mr. Weasley's version of you. Maybe the controller had some way of plucking their impressions of you out of their head, like a mix of the Imperius curse and Occlumency…"

Harry lapsed into silence. Whoever planted those bugs—he vaguely remembered a description of a gold and green lacquered insect on a short needle—had to have access to both Arthur and McGonagall, plus information on the Dursleys, and a source of Dumbledore's hair. Someone in the Ministry? Or—God forbid—the Order?

And then there was the ship itself, which was under the protection of the Fidelius charm. He remembered the first thing his captor had said after abducting him from the Burrow—"_I just wanted to invite you to a little party._" And then later, hadn't he said something similar? _"Ever heard of the Fidelius charm? No, the Dark Lord will have his chance at you when _I_ decide."_

Had they been one and the same? Abductor, captor, and secret keeper for the ship? Harry's brow lowered. That suggested that whoever the secret keeper was for the Galloping Galleon was also, if not the mastermind behind the whole operation, in very deep. They would have to be the person writing the invitations in order to impart the knowledge of the ship's location… "Professor!" he blurted, turning to Dumbledore quickly, and found the old man waiting expectantly. "Do you still have your invitation to the Galloping Galleon?"

If he thought it was an unexpected question, the old wizard didn't show it. "I'm sorry, Harry, but the invitations self-combust after being read by the recipient. Why do you wish to know, if I may ask?"

"Do you remember who writes them?" Harry asked urgently. Everything hinged on this.

Dumbledore hummed for a moment, squinting thoughtfully. "I believe he is the captain's first mate, aah… My memory is not what it used to be. A Mr. Bahari, I believe."

Bahari. He had a name.

Noticing the white-knuckled grip he had on his butterbeer, he tried to relax. The promise of vengeance, now that he had a focus, made it difficult. But there were other things that he needed to address. Taking a deep breath, he said quietly, "Professor… Why didn't you tell me that the imposter situation was unresolved? Why didn't you tell me to be on the lookout?"

"I apologize, Harry," the old man said, eyebrows drooping. "I was not my intent to—"

"Is anything being done about any of this?" Harry interjected, his frustration boiling over. "I mean, half the time I have no idea what's going on, because no one will tell me anything. And honestly, I think I have the right to know—I haven't seen anyone else getting batted around like a ping pong ball lately, have you?"

"Harry…"

Harry's temper was jumping quickly. "How could you let them do that to me, Professor? How could you let Fudge and the bloody Wizengamot do that? As if I were the one who were doing evil things—you don't know what goes on on that ship, I—I was—" He wanted to spit at the flood of remembered rage, helplessness, despair… "You failed me. You all failed me. The bloody _Ministry_ failed me, how can I… I don't have anything to trust anymore." He grimaced at his own melodrama, rotating his bottle on the dusty countertop.

In a flash of rage, he slammed his fist down. "And I was _punished!_ I'm being punished for—for surviving! For doing the only things I could do to not _die_!" He looked at Dumbledore, and nearly choked on the surge of betrayal that burned through him like acid. "Where is the justice in that? How could you _abandon_ me to them?"

"Harry," the old man said, voice laced with compassion and regret. "I am not abandoning you. But you must understand that the situation is more complicated than you perceive."

Harry just stared at him, jaw clenching.

"The laws governing International Waters are always difficult to deal with, even in muggle situations. Add to that magical bylaws and the overlapping territories of wizarding governments, and suddenly the right to jurisdiction becomes a convoluted mess indeed."

"I thought no one had jurisdiction out in the ocean," Harry returned stiffly.

"And many people would agree with you, Harry," Dumbledore said patiently. "But they would be wrong. There are, unfortunately, several different ways to determine who has that right. Sometimes it is given to the nation of the injured party—Altair Mengal, the captain of the ship, is an Indian national. Arguably, for the myriad charges of property damage, India would handle your prosecution. Lucius Malfoy is… or was, a British national, which might give Britain the right to prosecute. Often it is determined by the flag the ship is flying—it would be registered under that nation. If the vessel is proven to be involved in piracy, slavery, or some other sort of trafficking, then it is within the domain of any nation to prosecute."

Harry swallowed. "So… so the Ministry really could charge me for those crimes, if the ship is in the British registry?" Dumbledore nodded, and Harry exploded, "But there _was_ slavery on that ship! That troll was a captive, and they were using prisoners from Azkaban for sport!"

"Which is why, I imagine, the captain agreed to drop the charges against you for the time being," Dumbledore said heavily. "He likely doesn't want a full-scale investigation launched on his ship until he can clean things up."

Harry rubbed his forehead. "Then why charge me in the first place?"

"There are many possible reasons. Ask yourself: who stands to gain from putting you in this position? For all intents and purposes, you are trapped until this is all resolved."

Who would stand to gain? Anyone who wanted to do him harm… and that list was quite long these days. "So he can just decide when…?"

"With the proper coercion, he can likely speed things up or slow them down as he pleases," Dumbledore sighed.

"But—what about Lucius' disappearance? Don't they have to have access to the ship for that?"

"Yes," Dumbledore mused. "And I imagine the investigation will be held up for a rather long time." He fixed Harry with a piercing glance. "Harry, if you have any idea where Lucius is…"

"I don't know, Professor—I don't. He was alive when I left him." And that was the truth. "It was self defense against a convicted Death Eater—surely that means something?"

"Without access to the ship, without a body, and only eye-witness accounts, it will be difficult to prove, Harry. If it turns out that Mengal is flying India's colors, we may be barred from investigating all together. The British and Indian Ministries do not get on well at all."

Harry felt a growing despair. "If there's slavery on the ship, doesn't that mean that any nation can jump in at any time? Why doesn't the Wizengamot just bypass all the posturing and go after this guy?"

"I suspect," Dumbledore began darkly, causing Harry to straighten, "that there is a rather sizable amount of grease on the wheels at the Ministry these days."

Harry frowned. "You suspect?"

Dumbledore favored him with a dry smile. "I'm afraid I was kicked out of that august body last year, and haven't been asked back. I have only my suspicions."

Harry raked his fingers through his hair. "Nightmare," he muttered. "This is a nightmare. Why would the Ministry do this? What do they have to gain by dragging me through the mud?"

"Everything, Harry," Dumbledore sighed. "If you could be shown as an unsympathetic character, then it would go a long way toward reestablishing some credibility for both the Ministry and, unfortunately, the Prophet. I know—it doesn't make sense to you and me," he added in response to Harry's mutinous look. "But even though they were wrong about Voldemort, this goes toward showing they weren't wrong about you. If the public doesn't have you to rally behind, then they can only rally behind the government. You see?"

"People don't rally behind me," Harry muttered bitterly.

"Oh, but they do, my boy," Dumbledore said, smiling sadly. "And the Ministry knows it. The only way for them to gain credibility in the public's eyes, other than to sway you to publicly endorse them, is to make you look like the villain. And Fudge knows he will never earn your support."

Harry snorted at that.

"Harry," Dumbledore said after a short pause. "If there is anything else you know about the occurrences of the past few weeks—anything you haven't told us—please don't hesitate to inform me. It could make all the difference."

"Like informing _me_ could have made all the difference?" Harry snapped before he could stop himself.

"Harry, you must trust me—"

"I _can't_ trust you, Professor," Harry said, feeling his chest constrict at the words but knowing them to be true. Dumbledore did not respond, but a certain weariness seemed to settle around his shoulders.

For a little while, they were both silent. The place was quiet—the other patrons had cleared out, and the only sounds came from the guttering lamps and the night pressing in from outside.

The barkeep walked past them once or twice, eyeing them from beneath gnarled brows, as if trying to decide what to make of them.

"So you're really not on the Wizengamot anymore?" Harry asked abruptly.

Dumbledore gave a short laugh. "No. But I shall let you in on a little secret, Harry. Though I may not have the political clout that I once did, I now find myself with the time and freedom to see to certain things which would have been impossible before. It rather reminds me of the old days," he added wistfully, gaze going distant.

Harry stared at the Headmaster. He studied the familiar weathered features and deep, wise wrinkles—the crows-feet around those pale eyes which studied something buried or forgotten that Harry couldn't see—and he wondered how many of those long decades Dumbledore had spent alone. Trying to do everything by himself, never sharing the weight or responsibilities of leadership with anyone. Was it hubris, or nobility? "Have you always been like that?" he asked without thinking.

He realized with a thrill of horror that it had been a terribly forward question, which was not the sort of thing he said to anyone, let alone the Headmaster of his school. But, with an air of puzzlement and infinite patience, Dumbledore answered him anyway. "Have I always been like what?"

Harry cleared his throat. "You know, gone your own way. Played everything close to the chest."

"Hm," Dumbledore said quietly. And even more quietly still, he murmured, "I suppose I have."

Harry took a deep breath, and stared fixedly at his butterbeer. "I think you need to have someone you confide in, Professor. Someone you're completely honest with, who knows all your plans and plots and secrets. I'm not saying that's me, obviously; I know there are loads of really intelligent and talented witches and wizards in the Order you can trust. But you just can't go on waging this war all on your own. People _want_ to help, and keeping secrets and—and trying to handle everything just means more chances for you to mess up. And I can't afford for you to mess up anymore." He set a sickle onto the bar for the drinks, and quietly walked out of the pub and into the night.

* * *

"_Careless!" Harry shrieked, sweeping aside the contents of the stone table in a fit of unrestrained rage. "How could he simply let the boy slip away?"_

"_He is taunting you, my Lord," purred the low, sycophantic voice of Bellatrix Lestrange. "We should kill him—we have no need of his little games—ugh!"_

_The irritating drone was quickly silenced when Harry took her by the throat and yanked her close. Fear and desire warred in her dark eyes, and Harry whispered, "Do not speak of that which you do not understand, woman. Vexing as our benefactor may be, he is yet of use. Can you say the same of yourself?" Harry tossed her away roughly, and she caught herself on the table edge._

"_Forgive me, my Lord," she demurred, eyes down and trembling slightly._

"_Fah," Harry growled at her, turning away. He was surrounded by incompetence, and at this moment would have liked nothing better than to kill them all and be done with it. But no. He remembered patience with reluctance. He could not be everywhere at once. Bellatrix still waited, cowed, and it filled him with irritation. Could she find nothing more useful to do than hover? "Get out," he spat abruptly. "Tell the map-maker that her presence is required."_

_Bellatrix scurried out the rough stone doorway. Harry poised over the ruined collection of maps and parchment, but his mind was elsewhere. How could he have escaped? Out in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by Death Eaters… Harry lunged forward, overturning the table, and roared._

* * *

"Guh!" Harry jumped, heart racing as he woke abruptly. His fists were twisted in his sheets, and his face was buried in his pillows. He pushed himself up on his forearms, breathing harshly and raking his fingers through his hair.

He stayed like that until his pulse had eased, and then he reached blindly for his bedside table, taking up his glasses, a quill, and a bit of parchment. He scratched out everything he could remember from the vision—most importantly that Voldemort seemed to be looking for something but didn't know where it was, and that it must be someplace remote if he needed a map-maker—and then set it all aside to flop back on his pillows, clutching his head.

He'd woken up with headaches before, but this was something else. Now it wasn't just centered in his scar, but also pulsing like a jackhammer behind his left eye. He hissed through his teeth, pressing the heel of his palm into his eye, until slowly the pain eased.

He looked up to meet Hedwig's bleary gaze—she was hunkered down at the end of his bed like a faithful hound and appeared to have been awoken by his thrashing. "I hate mornings, Hedwig," he told her flatly. She blinked in a noncommittal sort of way.

"Well, I suppose that's your opinion, then," he grunted, and swung out of the big bed. A large stack of mail sat by the window, and he scowled at the familiar scene. "I hate mail as well," he added half-heartedly, and wondered how the envelopes came to be so carefully arranged every morning. House elves, perhaps? He was just glad there weren't a score of owls sitting outside his window.

He set aside letters from anyone he knew personally, and all the rest—a frightening number of people who either encouraged his "life of crime-fighting," or gave him a round scolding for acting like a hoodlum, and even a handful of shady sounding invitations to "exciting opportunities fitting your unique skill-set"—received a quick immolation with a snap of his fingers.

When a particularly thick set of letters began to burn a little out of hand, Harry instinctively reached for his wand—only to remember he didn't have it anymore. "Dammit," he cursed, dashing for his trunk. Where had he packed the blood wand—? The drapes caught fire almost spitefully, and he cursed again, abandoning the search in favor of darting back to put the small blaze out with his trainers. "The house elves are going to murder me," he mumbled, stomping feverishly.

"Argh," he burst when the hem of his jeans started smoldering. "Oh hell—_aguamenti!_" He twisted his mind around the incantation, hand outstretched, forcing the magic to bend to his will—his muscles shook and the fixtures rattled, the air rippled and—

A fine spray whirled into being, slightly less impressive than the misters in the produce section at the grocery store.

Harry groaned in disbelief, muscles going slack. "That's it?" Hedwig twittered disapprovingly, and Harry scowled at her. "Well, let's see you try it then."

She met his gaze coolly, and if he didn't know any better, Harry would have thought she was scoffing at him. Quickly, he snatched a pillow from his bed to smother the flames before they consumed the whole room. The sad result was a charred length of drapery, a blackened pillow, and a scorched spot on the rug.

"_Reparo?_" he tried half-heartedly, wiggling his fingers at the destruction. Nothing happened at all, and he sighed, truly recognizing for the first time how difficult things would be without a wand. Unless he was alone, he wouldn't even be able to use his blood wand. There was no way it would fit in his pocket, and swinging around a hacked off table leg wasn't exactly inconspicuous. It would not be a fun year.

Dutifully, he sat down and answered the rest of his mail—trying to ignore the faint atmosphere of smoke in the room—assuring a great number of people who had evidently heard about the attack on the Dursleys' and following abduction that he was indeed well, that no, he would not teach anyone how to shoot nails at people, and no, he had not orchestrated the whole thing in order to off the Dursleys.

At the behest of a note from Madam Pomfrey, the next order of business was a trip to the hospital wing for a checkup—the nurse seemed to think it was necessary after his ordeal, and Harry grudgingly agreed that it might be a good idea.

She shrieked, "Dear Merlin, you've dropped a stone!" when he ambled through the door, sending Hedwig bolting from his shoulder and back down the hallway. Harry privately thought this was a gross exaggeration—he'd just spent an entire week under Mrs. Weasley's cooking regiment, after all.

But he sat patiently while she hovered about, muttering things like, "Already naught but skin and bones," and, "spine poking out your stomach," and "carve out that man's eyes with a spoon, I will," all of which left Harry feeling mildly insulted. She finally let him go with a potion supplement, and an admonishment to drink lots of fluids and get at least three square meals a day.

Just as he was standing up to go, Pomfrey took his face in her calloused hands and kissed him on the cheek. "I'm glad you came out of that mess all right, lad. Now do an old girl a favor and stay out of here, you understand?"

Harry, so surprised he actually blushed, could only stutter, "Thank you, Madam Pomfrey…"

She shooed him away, and he went.

After the obligatory breakfast cum supplement potion, during which his owl somehow found her way into the kitchens and raised hell until the house elves brought her some bacon, Harry dashed back up to his room in the guest wing for some books and parchment.

There was work to be done.

Hedwig perched on his bedpost and watched as he chewed the end of his quill pensively, staring at a blank bit of parchment.

_Research,_ he wrote first, and underlined it.

_Blood magic_ went second.

_Wizarding Law._

_Magical theory._

_Spell construction._

_Wild magic._

_River spirits._

_Ghosts._

_Dementors._ He pondered over this one for a long time, before adding, _creation, control, destruction. Other dark creatures associated with water._

_Prophecy, _he added last of all, with that familiar feeling of ice in his gut. Whatever the problems in his life, it always seemed as if Voldemort had a hand in everything. He wondered cynically if he would get bored after he offed the Dark Lord.

He sat back and looked at his list with a faint sense of dismay. It was a lot to take on all at once, and almost read like a class list except for the last few topics. He clenched his jaw in determination. He would find his answers, and do what he needed to do. That was all there was to it.

He snatched up the list, a few books, and his book-bag, and swept out the door with Hedwig hot on his heels.

* * *

Several hours later found him hunched over like an old man, nursing a headache and a goblet of pumpkin juice that Pistol the house elf had been good enough to bring him. "What miss Pince don't know can't hurt," the old elf had said with a distinctly sly wink. Hedwig had taken her leave out through the tall library windows early on, and aside from Peeves, who popped in and out unpredictably, Harry was quite alone.

He had started out with Wizarding Law, but it was all so convoluted and outdated that he couldn't make heads or tails of anything—in fact, he wasn't sure if Hogwarts (or the Ministry, for that matter) even had updated versions of the various branches of law. Some things were just plain contradictory, which he might have chalked up to differences in era, had it not been for the fact that often times it happened in the same book.

"Show me a wizard with a head for law, and I'll show you a freak of nature," he muttered to himself.

He had, however, managed to glean some fairly useful information about the ways a witch or wizard could break the law. He'd smirked to himself when he imagined Hermione praising him for being a conscientious citizen, when in truth he was more concerned with knowing just which lines he was crossing when he came to them. Because lines would have to be crossed; he was fairly certain of that.

Wizarding Law segued easily into the subject of blood magic, but here he ran into much of the same problem—the field of blood magic was so broad and old that there were literally dozens of books devoted solely the topic in the Restricted section, and hundreds more that mentioned various permutations of it—all with contradicting ideas about its morality and usage.

It seemed that blood magic had seen fairly common use for most of magical history, and it hadn't been until relatively recent times that it had taken on its dark stigma. Blood in spells, artifacts, or rituals served as a potent focusing agent, as well as a key component to some of the more powerful or ancient magic processes. It seemed the majority of magical nations had little or no restrictions on its use, but Britain had seen an outbreak of hostile blood magic when the old Houses began imploding on themselves during the last few centuries. Since most Houses shared some blood ties, they had turned blood magic against each other—sometimes even within their own families.

It figured, Harry reflected, that pureblood nobility had been at the root of the trouble.

Throughout his foray into the complexities of blood magic, Harry became more and more certain that this would be something he could and should use. The Ministry was foolish and backwards for throwing out an entire branch of magic—more than just one branch really, as it applied to enchanting, spellcasting, potion making, warding—it was mind boggling.

Anything he cast upon himself with his blood wand would be many times more potent than normal—a simple levitation charm could send him skyrocketing, or a disillusionment charm could render him almost flawlessly invisible. A shield charm could be nigh impregnable.

If he could make another blood wand that was small enough to hide up his sleeve, then once he got his old wand back, he could switch off casting, perhaps… That is, _if _he got his old wand back.

He copied down anything that caught his fancy, racking up long scrawling lines of ideas and thoughts, but soon his search turned toward finding any sign of what the Other side could be, and why he seemed to be the only one aware of it.

His leads all seemed to point to dead ends. The most obvious one he'd thought of, involving the Durmstrang ship and how it had emerged from the lake, turned out to be a complicated process involving corresponding runes and plotted trajectories and folds through space which required prior setup in order to function.

That theory exhausted, Harry moved on. Remembering how he had seen the bobbing lights of magical souls from the Other side when he'd been evading those wizards on his first journey through the puddle, Harry pursued the afterlife angle. Predictably, all he could find on the subject remained hazy and philosophical; if the ghosts knew anything, they weren't talking, and obviously no one else had seen life after death.

"Oy, Peeves," he called out, eyes glued to the text.

The poltergeist, who had been industriously sticking book pages together with chewing gum up and down the aisles, poked his head out. "Aye?"

Harry put the book down. "What is the afterlife like?"

Peeves considered him for a second, before breaking out into a grin. "Ickle Potter's thinkin' morose thoughts these days, is he? Thinkin' about tottering off the mortal coil, boyo?"

Harry let his chin fall into his hand, and regarded the poltergeist flatly. "More interested in staying on it, at this point, Peeves."

Peeves barked a laugh and zoomed in a loop until he poked halfway up through the table to regard Harry with a sly grin. "Peevesy's a poltergeist, Potter, not a ghost. Haven't got the foggiest, smoggiest idea what the afterlife looks like!"

Harry narrowed his eyes at the rotund little spirit. "You're lying," he said evenly.

"Tisn't a lie! Cross my heart and hope to die!"

Harry grunted. Maybe Peeves was telling the truth. Or maybe he wasn't asking the right question. "What about… the underworld?" Peeves went rather still, so Harry elaborated. "Really dark, glowing stuff everywhere… guardians and water spirits? Lots of dementors?"

Harry could see the poltergeist visibly swallow, and his normally clever gaze darted about nervously. "How's he know about that? Who told 'im? Bad place. Bad place." He actually shivered, before dropping out of sight.

Harry expected the little man to come out on the other side of the table, but after a few moments he realized that the poltergeist wasn't coming back at all. "Thanks, little buddy," he muttered dryly, and tried to shake of the sudden chill that ran up his spine.

His next literary foray—into corporeal magic—rerouted him into discussions on spell intensity and arithmantic modifiers for spellsmithing, when he'd really been trying to figure out if being able to see the wards and spell residue on the Other side might be a clue.

Magical properties of water got him nowhere.

Water spirits were mentioned in some very old texts, but referred to more as mythical figures rather than something you might run into in your best friend's backyard swimming hole.

Evening shadows were creeping across the floor by the time Harry pulled out what he could find discussing dementors and the variety of dark creatures associated with water. The library was dusty and silent, except for a very faint sound that came and went so fitfully that Harry was at first uncertain if it was just his imagination. After a still moment, he shook his head at his own folly, and pulled the books closer.

Dementors were… abhorrent creatures. Their origins were very vague, with most sources stating that the most complete information could be found filed away deep in Azkaban itself. The most explicit accounts (and these took on a certain vibe that reminded him of muggle UFO sightings) talked about how the Patronus was the only spell given for civilian use to defend against the creatures, but that the Ministry had more decisive methods. Unfortunately, these accounts also insisted that the Ministry kept that sensitive information in Azkaban as well, and so there was no way to prove its existence beyond word of mouth.

Descriptions and symptoms of encounters with dementors were much more comprehensive, and Harry found himself growing cold as he read. No one knew where the souls of the dementors' victims went, but details about the process were vivid and gripping. How the victim first lost control of their motor functions, then their higher thought processes, and finally all bodily functions as the monsters opened a black void into which all warmth and spark was greedily consumed.

How the rotting, spectral figures would flock, gently, steadily, inexorably, and run their victims down for miles.

How the air around them would _burn_ with grasping, choking cold.

Harry shoved the books away, hand going up to rub his eyes beneath his glasses. His left eye was aching again. He was tired, and the back of his neck had a fantastic crick in it, and after pulling out every single damn book in the library, he was no closer to finding out what he was dealing with and why it was happening to him. There was nothing. No connections. No mentions of anything that sounded remotely familiar. How was that even possible? He kicked the table leg and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

His frustration exploded. In a flash he was on his feet, and violently chucked his chair into the end of the nearest aisle. "It makes no _bloody sense_!"

How could there be no evidence—no connections? What did it mean? What was it about him that separated him from every other witch or wizard in published history? His anger petered away, leaving behind the bitter ashes of disappointment. Absently, he licked his thumb and tamped out the edge of his notes, which had caught fire in his short outburst.

"This is crazy," he muttered, shuffling over to retrieve his overturned chair.

With a sigh, he sat down again and grabbed a book on dark creatures, but his movements halted halfway. There was that sound again.

He looked around the empty library, scanning carefully, but saw nothing. What could—?

It brushed against his ears again—whispers. He stood carefully, stepping sideways to get a look down the adjacent rows of books. The shadows were long and deep now, broken only by dusty shafts of orange sunlight.

Turning in a slow circle, trying to pinpoint the direction of the source, his gaze landed on his goblet of pumpkin juice. A shiver shot up his spine. _Surely not…_

He crept closer, so that he was leaning directly over the innocuous looking liquid. Yes, it was clearer now… It sounded like the constant groaning, wailing, crying whispers that carried on the breeze when he was on the Other side.

"No way," he whispered aloud, too horrified to censure his words. He wasn't _on_ the Other side; he shouldn't be able to hear those voices here… things were not supposed to come across that divide unless he brought them.

He was leaning close now, so close that his breath was causing the surface of the liquid to ripple. The whispers grew louder, moaning and hissing and _snarling_, and… that wasn't Harry's breath moving the surface, it was—

The pumpkin juice froze with a sharp snapping pop, and Harry's entire body jerked with pure fright-induced adrenaline.

He stumbled back with a gasp, heart pounding, and one thing ran through his mind over and over: _they're trying to come through, they're trying to come through…_.

He bolted from the library.

Part of him knew he was overreacting—part of him knew he didn't react this strongly when he was on the Other side _with_ those creatures. But the other part of him couldn't shake the feeling that there were things skittering along behind him through the darkened hallways. That part of him couldn't stop repeating over and over that if those _things_ came across the divide, that he wouldn't be able to get away anymore.

And they could come through just about anywhere. There was a great big lake right outside that would fit anything that wanted to climb out of it.

Harry's pulse didn't start to slow down until he'd climbed into his four-poster bed—_like a little kid afraid of the dark_—and he convinced himself over and over that there was nothing to be worried about. There wasn't anything on the Other side he couldn't handle.

He sat there for a long time, fingers buried in his hair, staring down at the pages of the _Auror's Starter Companion_, trying to take his mind off of what had happened.

A flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye. There was a glass of water on his bedside table.

Long, bloodless fingers came grasping over the rim of the cup, slowly, feeling around like blind, hungry maggots.

Harry shouted, a cry of senseless, primal fear, and lashed out. He struck the glass, sending its contents into the air, and for just a split second in that curtain of water before the droplets separated from each other, he could see a face beyond those still-reaching fingers—pale as an eggshell, lumpy and blind, and a mouth that stretched wide, yawning and boneless.

And then the water splashed across the rug, the glass bounced once and rolled, and the creature was gone.

Harry leaned back, trembling from the shock, and let out a quiet moan. He needed help.

Hedwig flew in the window on quiet wings, and landed less than gracefully on the end of his bed. "Keep watch for me, girl," he told her. She cocked her head, but twittered agreeably.

Exhaustion caught up with him, and Harry slipped into oblivion.

* * *

Harry spent the next few days doing everything he could to not think about what had happened (except when he was researching it), and worked until he was so fatigued that he dropped immediately into sleep every night (until he woke up sweating from dreaming about it). Working with Hagrid during the afternoon certainly helped. Having been holed up in the library that first day back, Harry hadn't a chance of seeing the big man, but Hagrid sent him a note the very next morning inviting him to tea.

On the way down to Hagrid's hut, Harry practiced wandlessly casting _Aguamenti_ at his owl, who was dodging back and forth overhead. Harry was able to cast his jets of water further and further with every attempt, and Hedwig, for her part, couldn't seem to decide whether it was all great fun or entirely undignified. She finally seemed to get fed up with the game and dropped a bomb on Harry as if to say, "Dodge that!" which Harry neatly did.

"Bloody bird," he muttered fondly, watching her wing away over the Forbidden Forest. She was likely hungry—she'd stayed and watched over him all night instead of going hunting, and his breakfast scraps likely hadn't cut it.

"Harry!" Hagrid boomed, coming around the side of his hut. Harry was alarmed to see the half-giant's eyes glittering with moisture, before he was swept up in a bone-crushing hug. "Damn it all if yeh don't know how ter get yerself in trouble!"

Harry coughed when Hagrid put him down, trying to get his breath back. "Well, like I told Hermione, I always get out of it again," he said weakly.

"That yeh do, lad," Hagrid agreed, slapping him on the back (which was like being whacked repeatedly by a slab of bedrock) and sniffling loudly. "I'm jes' glad ter see yeh're okay after all that. I tell yeh, those thestrals over on the north slopes have been in a right snit since yeh left."

Harry smiled up at the big man while he talked.

And so it went.

Harry fell back into his duties with Hagrid as if he'd never left, and if not having his own wand made things difficult, it simply spurned his efforts at wandless magic on all the more.

He hadn't seen hide nor hair of Dumbledore since their long discussion and Harry's brazen declaration. Harry thought, somewhat bitterly, that the old man was likely out and about, exercising his newfound political freedom to pull strings and poke his nose into more distant and far-flung matters.

Harry didn't have any more encounters with creatures trying to come through his teacups that week, aside from the occasional whispers, but he was constantly on his guard. His research was enlightening, and his studies in magic theory made his understanding of what he read more and more thorough, but he still hadn't found what he was looking for. With Mud still on her way from Ottery St. Catchpole, Karakash unreachable (no matter how many times he stuck his face in the Black Lake and called for him), and Peeves unwilling to discuss the matter, Harry wasn't making much headway.

He focused instead on beginning spellsmithing (tricky business without a proper wand, to say the least) and found that between the Almanac, the texts he could find in the library, and the twins' own surprisingly thorough notes, Harry could put together and execute very basic spells. Only simple things like colored lights or streams of sparks, but they were based on his own designs, and he had nowhere to go but up.

His other focus was one that consumed his thoughts but left him unable to act.

Bahari.

He needed to find the man who had abducted him—who knew where Mr. Weasley and the Dursleys were. But in order to do that, he needed help. Help on the inside. He needed Tonks.

But how could he approach her about it? She was an apprentice-Auror, an employee of the Ministry. He couldn't just say, 'help me find this man.' But he also couldn't go with, 'hey, let's meet for tea!' What would she think? She'd think it was suspicious, or weird, or—God forbid—creepy.

Harry spent the better part of a day wondering how to procure her help, but in the end, it didn't matter.

She wrote to him.


	12. Where There's A Will

Chapter 12

Harry carried that little scrap of parchment around with him all through the next day. He periodically took it out to frown and ponder over it—it baffled him that Tonks would write him. He knew what he wanted from her—Machiavellian though the thought was—but what could she possibly want with him?

He never let himself think on it for long, since the question invariably left him feeling giddy and ridiculous by turns.

It was probably just Order business, he told himself. Tonks hadn't provided him with any details—just a simple request to meet for lunch someplace in London.

Maybe it had to do with all the legal trouble he was in with the Ministry. Maybe it was another imposter…

Maybe she just wanted to hang out…?

He quashed that last idea—several times—with a self-deprecating snort. She was an Auror, for Merlin's sake—she certainly had better things to do than shoot the breeze with a teenaged schoolboy.

It didn't stop him from grumbling at the unfairness of it all, nor from running the note through his overburdened mind once again.

_Wotcher, Sunshine!_

_Was wondering if you'd like to meet for tea sometime this week? The Dragon's Perch is a few blocks up the street from the Leaky Cauldron, and something of a department favorite, so it should be secure. Hedwig knows where to find me._

_-Tonks_

Harry grunted as he dropped another armful of lumber in the shadow of the building he and Hagrid were working on. A side building—standing on its own it would have likely dwarfed most barns, but it was overshadowed by the main buildings many times over. The planks Harry was hauling around were obscenely heavy—he reckoned they were some kind of dense wood like walnut—and twice as long as Harry was tall.

He and Hagrid had spent the morning tearing out the old rotting sections—it seemed even magic had limitations when it came to preserving things. While Hagrid was otherwise occupied, Harry had begun to attempt wandless blasting hexes on the old planks. Presently, Hagrid was inside pushing nails in with his bare thumbs while Harry drug himself back and forth to the woodpile.

He'd wanted to try and levitate the wood, as any respectable witch or wizard would have, but Hagrid had declared that Harry needed some 'meat on yer bones.' Harry privately thought he had shot right past aerobic exercise and into the realm of anaerobic, in which case he was breaking down whatever meat there might have been.

He paused to catch his breath, pushing his hair back from his forehead. Another blister had ripped open on the grip of his hand, and he tiredly muttered, "_Sutura_." A cool blue glow suffused the blister, and it closed up again. This spell he'd been getting a little too much practice with—Harry knew it was neither the appropriate one to use, and with his clumsy wandless magic it wasn't nearly as potent as it could be. Unfortunately, it was the only healing spell he knew.

Huffing in the dry, dusty air, Harry grabbed another plank.

According to Hagrid, things like wood—or stone, or tiles, or shingles—had to be portkeyed over in large shipments like this from the middleman company that purchased the goods from muggle sources.

Harry had wondered aloud why wizards didn't simply conjure the materials needed for building, to which Hagrid had responded, "Are yeh kiddin', Harry? Most magical folk couldn' conjure a tea set that lasted more n' a few hours. Takes a lot o' power an' know-how to make somethin' that won' just disappear the mo' yeh turn around. Unless yeh transfigure it from somethin' else, o' course."

Harry reflected on this sourly as he hauled another armload of the infernal lumber. He thought he'd known hard labor at the Dursleys. If Dumbledore had been around, the old man could likely wave a hand and the colossal buildings would just construct themselves.

Hagrid did seem to enjoy the hands-on approach, though. If the big man knew an easier way to do things, he was keeping mum about it.

Eventually Hagrid called a halt to their efforts, and Harry slumped with relief. He'd never counted himself a slouch when it came to work, but the events of the week had been taking their toll on him. He was sleep-deprived, stressed out, nursing the last vestiges of injury, malnourished, and probably a bit dehydrated. The last was likely a product of his subconscious avoidance of water of any kind—short nerve-wracking showers, infrequent hydration, and suspicious regard of anything served in a bowl or eaten with a spoon.

He'd taken to counting down the time it took for things to start appearing whenever he was near water, and to his dismay he had yet to find any sort of consistency. At times it would take mere minutes before he began hearing whispers and scrabbling, but sometimes it would take hours.

He swiped a hand beneath his glasses—a dull ache had centered itself behind his left eye again—and trotted after Hagrid. The wooly aurochs had returned from their stint on the wizard ship, and were back in the rear paddock. Harry helped pitch bales of orchard grass over the fence.

He was obliged to '_sutura_' his hands again after that, and this time it caught Hagrid's attention. "Blimey, Harry!" the big man exclaimed, grabbing Harry's hands and turning them over for examination. "Why didn' yeh tell me yeh needed gloves? Yeh're gettin' qui' handy with tha' spell, though, make no mistake…" He paused, and an incredulous expression crossed his ruddy face. "Are yeh doin' tha' withou' a wand, Harry?"

Harry cleared his throat, feeling embarrassed that Hagrid had caught him trying—and mostly failing—to perform a spell that wasn't really even meant for something as mild as blisters. "Er, yeah. But I'm not very good."

Hagrid looked utterly gobsmacked. "Not very—blimey, Harry, I've never even seen… an' you figured out how ter do that spell all on yer own?" Harry barely had time to shrug a shoulder before Hagrid pounded his back in a fit of enthusiasm. "Come on, then, I'll tell yeh about a bunch o' healin' spells while we feed the critters!"

Harry could only wheeze in reply, trying to pop his spine back into alignment as he followed the big man.

Hagrid was, unsurprisingly, a firm believer in the philosophy of tough love—while he _did_ discuss and demonstrate the spells, he left it up to Harry to perform the spell when it happened that one of the nesting griffins slashed him on the arm.

"I don't think it's working, Hagrid," he hissed through gritted teeth, trying to ignore how much of his blood was dripping from his fingers.

"Healin' spells won' do yeh any good if yeh can' work em when it counts, Harry," the big man said, hovering anxiously.

"Maybe I imagined I would be healing someone else," Harry growled. "_Episky_," he tried again, trembling with the effort. Hissing steam began to rise up from the wound, and slowly, slowly it sealed itself up. Harry let out a gusty sigh, wiping his bloody hand on his jeans and giving Hagrid a wry grin. "Flesh wound."

"Maybe this'll teach yeh two lessons. Be more careful next time, eh?" Hagrid said, trying to appear stern but ruining it with his relieved slump. "Yeh're a quick study when you want ter be, Harry. Well done."

Harry grimaced at the backhanded compliment. "Why didn't you just do it, Hagrid?"

"Well, strictly speakin' I'm not allowed ter do magic on students."

"Right," Harry said, remembering how Buckbeak had attacked Malfoy back in third year, and Hagrid had carried the boy up to the infirmary rather than perform a healing spell. Thinking about third year brought up other memories about a certain man, and he quickly distracted himself. "So when did you get your new wand?"

"Dumbledore had it commissioned for me at the start o' the summer. Said it was high time I had a proper wand again," Hagrid said, puffing up. "Great man, Dumbledore."

Harry just bowed his head slightly, conflicted, and soon after that he left Hagrid to make his way back to the castle.

A solid weight landed on his shoulder just before he made it to the mammoth front doors. "Lo, girl," he greeted his owl tiredly. He spotted a note grasped in her downy talons, and extracted it. "They really should have an award for best owl," he told her indulgently, stroking her head with one hand while he flipped open the note with the other.

She chattered happily into his ear while he read:

_Harry,_

_Your presence is required tomorrow afternoon for the execution of your godfather's will. As the meeting will begin at 4:00 in the afternoon at Gringotts Bank, I will arrange for your transport to arrive at 3:45. Awaiting your owl,_

_Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore_

Harry couldn't help but grimace at the painfully formal tone, and wondered if his blunt words to the Headmaster had been the final nail in the coffin of their relationship. The hollow feeling in his gut intensified when he turned the bit of parchment over to find a postscript:

_Also, Harry, be aware that Professor Snape will soon be joining you at Hogwarts for the remainder of the summer. Please remember our agreement. –AD_

"Urg," Harry grunted, scrubbing a hand down his face. The note didn't even say _when_ the slimy git would show, which meant Harry would spend the next few days tiptoeing around, expecting Snape to appear around every corner. As if he really needed another reason to be on edge.

"Murder me, Hedwig." The owl just bit him on the ear.

* * *

The next morning, Harry waited impatiently on the front steps of Hogwarts, looking up every minute or so from his perusal of _The Two Hundred Year War_—an account of the hostile relations between Magical India and Britain—to scan the grounds for anyone coming. In his other hand, he idly rotated the bit of horn Karakash had given him. He'd taken to carrying it around with him, as it was comfortable in his hand, and he kind of hoped that eventually it would give up its mysteries on its own. It was actually closer to lunch than breakfast, since, to his great dismay, Harry hadn't roused until half past eleven.

He rubbed at the dull throbbing behind his left eye, remembering the disturbing dreams that had woken him several times in the night. Nothing to do with Voldemort this time (so at least he could comfortably rule out anything to do with reality) they had all involved him growing horrific, translucent appendages and bursting out of his robes like some kind of mutant demon cephalopod.

Maybe he was experiencing unresolved guilt over the baby squid prank that would soon be coming to fruition.

His train of thought was derailed when a toasted baguette was thrust under his nose. "Pistol…" he sighed.

The old house elf only eyed him sternly until he took the hot sandwich, looming over his seated form like a disapproving butler. "Harry Potter sir is supposed to be eating every meal, sir."

"I know that, Pistol, but I'm about to go eat with a friend—"

"Mistress Pomfrey tells Pistol to make sure, Harry Potter sir."

Harry rolled his eyes in exasperation. "It's really okay, Pistol—I'm not going to drop dead if I miss a meal or two."

The house elf's washed out blue eyes crinkled wryly. "Respecting, Harry Potter sir, but Pistol would rather not be taking chances with Mistress Pomfrey."

Harry gave the elf a look and took a deliberate bite out of the sandwich. "I'm only doing this for you, Pistol. And call me Harry. There are plenty more important things to waste syllables on."

For some reason this caused Pistol's pale eyes to water, and he only managed a raspy, "Of course, Master Harry," before popping away.

Harry was still struggling with a peculiar mixture of guilt and confusion when the sound of footsteps on gravel made him look up from his book. He jumped to his feet. "Tonks!"

"Harry," she responded with a salute and a grin. Her hair was arranged in neon orange dreadlocks today, pulled back into a ponytail, and her attire was distinctly muggle. Harry immediately shucked his outer robe in favor of jeans and a tee, figuring the sun would burn off what was left of the clouds soon. He shrunk his books and robe down and stuck them, along with Karakash's horn, in his back pockets.

"You're looking fashionable," he commented, hopping down the steps to meet her.

"You're looking skinny," she replied lightly. "Turn sideways and I think you might disappear."

"I'm fine as long as I remember to watch out for cracks," he quipped.

"What happens in a stiff wind?" she asked while rummaging in the pockets of her aviator jacket.

"I'm aerodynamic; the air would just go around me."

She chuckled appreciatively, a sound that made Harry struggle mightily not to smile like an idiot. "Aha!" she said finally, fishing out what appeared to be a large tooth with a bit of twine wrapped around it. "Portkey," she supplied at his nonplussed expression. "They hand 'em out to all the regulars."

"Convenient."

"And untraceable," she said cheerfully.

Harry paused. "We are going to a pub, aren't we?"

"Well, yes, but being a 'Copper's' pub comes with its own slew of issues and… accoutrements. Shall we?"

Harry, whose dislike for travel by portkey surpassed even the floo, managed to dredge up a smile, and touched a finger to the old tooth. There was the familiar jerk that yanked him off his feet and sent his insides roiling, a brief tumble through the fabric of space, and the stinging aftershock of whiplash. He landed in a heap, as usual, and noticed bitterly that even Tonks—notoriously clumsy Tonks—had kept her feet.

He heard a few coughs of sympathy (or laughter, more likely) while he clambered upright, and took a look around. The first thing that caught his attention was the massive and slightly cobwebby dragon head looming out from the equally massive stone fireplace. It wasn't just the head, though—the taxidermist (if wizards even had such occupations) had included several meters of thick, sinewy neck as well, so that the beast reached well over the heads of the pub's patrons. Dusty shafts of light came down through windows near the high ceiling, playing eerily across the planes of the dragon's face and making it seem as if any moment it would move.

"Creepy," Harry muttered, staring up at it.

Tonks followed his gaze. "Oh, Turk? Yeah, he's a bit mordant, isn't he?"

"To put it lightly," Harry replied, following her through the clusters of occupied tables. He could feel innumerable sets of eyes on his back, but the low conversations never wavered except when Tonks greeted colleagues on her way by. Every witch and wizard in the place seemed rough and careworn—smoking cigars and downing shots, laughing uproariously at some lethal thing they'd encountered that day. It was like wading through a crowd of wolves—friendly enough around their own kind, but dangerous all the same.

Tonks lifted a hand to let the barman know they were settled before sliding into a booth next to a window.

The leather was old and faded, and the table pocked and scratched, but the place had an air of being homey and well cared for. Glass fishing floats hung from the rafters, emitting rich, orange illumination. Faded lines of colored cloth squares hung across the back cabinets and shelves, which were heavily stocked with liquor bottles of all shapes and sizes. The brassy back wall dimly reflected the rest of the pub.

"Marty O'Shea—that's the bartender there—says he slew old Turkey—"

"Turkey?" Harry interrupted, laughing. The dragon looked as if it could pop a turkey like a bubblegum ball.

"Feathers, see," Tonks said, pointing. Turk did indeed sport a coat of black plumage—tiny feathers on the face and sides of the long neck, growing progressively larger over the crest—but it was hopelessly dingy and missing great patches. Harry gave her a doubtful look, and she put up her hands. "I didn't come up with it, that's just what Marty calls him. Says he killed the dragon when he was a young man, apprenticing in the Himalayas." There was a laugh dancing in her voice, and she leaned forward, angling her head. "Look at him—we all love the man, but does he seem like the dragon dueling sort?"

Harry looked over at the subject of discussion. Sandy hair thinning on top and grey on the sides, O'Shea had a distinct girth and a gimp in his gait. Part of one eyebrow seemed to be missing, but despite his bedraggled appearance, there was a warmth in his eyes and a grin in the corner of his mouth as he spoke to his customers at the bar.

"Not particularly," Harry admitted before winking roguishly. "But neither do I."

"Touché," she said with a chuckle. "Although, I don't know if flying away from a dragon as fast as you can counts as a duel."

"Details."

"And I've never been able to figure out what he was doing as an apprentice in Nepal of all places that he came back to the UK to run a pub."

"Maybe he's actually undercover," Harry said, always enjoying a good mystery. "Spying for the Indian government or something. Maybe they got to him while he was over there."

"Well, it is an Auror bar," Tonks said thoughtfully. Harry found himself distracted by the dimple in her cheek that formed from her pensive expression. "I'm sure he overhears plenty of sensitive information, and Merlin knows how many times he's had access to Auror equipment or documents when some of us end up staying in the rooms…"

Just in time, Harry kicked her in the shin to alert her that the bartender (cum spy) was approaching their booth.

"Wotcher, Marty!" Tonks greeted the aging man with a perfectly innocent face.

Harry swallowed a grin.

"Why, afternoon Miss Tonks! Didn't expect to see you before five today, I must admit, but sometimes we all need to take the edge off a little, eh?" the barman teased, elbowing Harry lightly in the shoulder.

To his surprise Tonks actually flushed slightly. "Oh shove off, Marty, before you give this impressionable youth the wrong idea."

Now it was Harry's turn to redden. _Impressionable youth? Damn._ He covered his disconcertion by extending a hand to the man. "Harry—"

"Mr. Potter, it's quite an honor—" O'Shea stopped himself with a sheepish laugh. "I'm sorry, that was rude of me. Do you ever miss having to introduce yourself?"

Harry was surprised into laughing. "You know, I really do."

"Well then," the bartender said, shaking his hand. "My name is Martin O'Shea. I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr.…?"

Harry decided he liked this fellow. "Potter. Harry Potter."

They ordered their drinks and a platter of fish and chips to share—Harry was still digesting Pistol's sandwich, and Tonks confided that, aside from what she had at her apartment, half a meal was all she could afford until the end of the week.

Harry could sympathize, remembering his enforced 'fasting' periods while living with the Dursleys. When O'Shea returned with their lunch, Harry waited until Tonks was distracted before slipping a few sickles to the bartender and angling his head meaningfully toward the meal. O'Shea gave him a nod and a wink, and departed.

They chatted about meaningless and humorous things while they ate. The curiosity over why Tonks had asked him to lunch was killing him, but the proximity of their beverages was enough of a distraction to keep him from bringing it up. To his frustration, every time he drained his glass, someone came by to fill it up again. Though he tried not to, Harry couldn't help but begin a countdown in his head, ears trained to listen for whispers over the low buzz of pub conversation. An abrupt squeak halfway through the meal nearly sent him jumping from the booth before he realized there was somebody washing the window outside.

"Bloody hell…" he gasped, clutching at his chest, while Tonks tried unsuccessfully to stifle her sniggering. "What's a window-washer doing out there all strapped up like we're on the bloody… fiftieth…" Harry trailed off when he recognized the London skyline through the soapy glass.

"Sixtieth, actually," Tonks told him. "Makes it harder for any old body to walk in."

Harry sat back and wrestled with an intense feeling of disorientation. "_Dragon's Roost_ makes more sense now." He eyed the man hanging precariously just outside, apparently oblivious to all that was going on inside. "He can't see us, right?"

Tonks laughed. "Sometimes they forget to wash this floor altogether, the muggle repelling charms are so strong. You can see why the glass is so dingy."

Harry finally turned his attention away from the window-washer—it was so strange observing someone who had no idea you were even there. Harry felt like he could have prodded the bloke in the nose, and gotten no response.

"So—" he and Tonks said simultaneously.

"You first," Harry said, before draining his glass once more. He tried to hide it behind his elbow then, but the waitress seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to empty drinks, because she was back with the water pitcher and filled it before he had a chance to decline. "Thanks," he told her with a clenched smile. _I'm going to let the Dementor that comes through get you first._

"I have a proposition for you," Tonks began. Harry immediately perked up, causing her to laugh. "Get your mind out of the gutter, it's nothing like that."

Harry spluttered in denial, but couldn't force down his grin.

"I was wondering if you'd like to take on some extracurricular activities for school credit," she went on, still smiling slightly. "After the last few weeks you've had, I thought—and my boss agrees—that some _practical_ training wouldn't do you wrong."

Harry gaped at her. "Are you saying…?"

"I'd have to run it by Dumbledore for sure, but I don't think he'll say no. That is if you want to do it."

Harry's heart was leaping in his chest, and he could hardly contain his excitement. "Wait, just so we're clear; what exactly are you asking?"

"I'm asking if you'd like to get an early start at Auror training. You would join our new recruits for assignments, receive coursework and materials—"

"Yes! Yes, I want to do it," Harry said breathlessly.

"Excellent," Tonks cheered, smiling at him broadly, and proceeded to tell him about what he might expect during the coming school year. She told him that it wasn't often the Auror Academy took on students while they were still in school, and that his schedule might be somewhat hectic until he got used to coming and going all the time. She was a bit vague about what the assignments would be like, but that only served to fuel Harry's imagination. She informed him that he would need to get his Apparation License straight away—

"But that shouldn't be any trouble for you," she added with a wink.

Harry, remembering his flimsy story about how he'd escaped the Galleon, could only smile wanly, wishing there was some way to increase his chances of seeming like he'd already apparated on his own before.

"I'll be able to tell you more once we get official permission from the Headmaster," she went on, "but until then the details are still up in the air. Oh, I'm looking forward to this," she enthused.

Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this kind of anticipation. Maybe the day he'd left the Dursleys for Hogwarts for the very first time? "So am I," he said earnestly. Then a clock on the wall caught his eye. _3:48._ _Bollocks._ He hadn't had the chance to bring up Bahari. "Bloody hell—I'm sorry Tonks, but I have to get going."

Tonks took a look at her own watch and cursed colorfully. "Oh, but it's okay; I'm going to the Reading as well. Come on Harry, I'll just get the bill and—"

"On the house, lass!" O'Shea called from the bar, before tipping an invisible hat to Harry, who grinned.

"Marty, you barmy man," Tonks shouted back. "That's no way to run a business!"

"Bah," Marty said, waving a washrag at them. "Off with you!"

They went.

* * *

As soon as they stepped into Diagon Alley, Harry began to wish he'd brought that silly Cubs cap. Exclamations and flurried conversations followed them down the busy lane, growing more numerous and noisy as they went. He and Tonks were moving quickly enough that most people didn't realize they'd seen him until he was already past, but that didn't stop them from following along behind.

Harry didn't dare look over his shoulder for fear of encouraging them, or worse still: drawing more people in.

"It's always been unpleasant going out in public," he murmured to Tonks, "but this is ridiculous."

"Your abduction and heroic escape have just made the papers," she replied without taking her eyes off the crowds. "Add that to the fact that Sirius Black's will is being read today—reporters are waiting for you at the bank, by the way—and you've got yourself a nice, frothy mob waiting to happen."

"How many are following us now?"

Her eyes darted back. "Just a few."

Harry chanced a glance back, and immediately several people exclaimed, "It _is_ him!" He scowled at Tonks sourly. "Liar."

Tonks grabbed his elbow and steered him toward the nearest shop door. "Okay, here's what we'll do—you know the disillusionment spell?" Harry nodded an affirmative. "Good. Head in there, find a nice corner where you're out of the way, or maybe a loo, and cast it on yourself. Come out here—I'll be waiting by the door—and tap me on the shoulder. Then we'll go."

Harry grimaced, thinking it highly unlikely that he'd manage to call any less attention to himself in there than outside, but it was worth a shot.

"Oh! Here, you might want this," she added with a sheepish grin, and handed him her wand.

"Right," he said, and chuckled weakly. _Wow, Potter, what was the plan? Perform a wandless disillusionment, impress the lady-friend? _

Grumbling a variety of curses to himself, he entered the dingy little shop. When his eyes adjusted, he saw that it appeared to be full of second-hand items. There were racks of robes that were slightly worn, stacks of cauldrons dented or missing a handle, brooms with a good number of the twigs pulled out, shelves of books with separated spines or covers ripped off—even a selection of second-hand wands along the back wall.

Harry had started forward before he knew it—whether it was out of some desperate hope that his own wand had found its way there, or to look at purchasing one despite the fact that he was forbidden, he wasn't sure.

Harry knew he shouldn't keep Tonks waiting, but his fascination was overpowering. The ministry had put him on wand probation. He couldn't buy a new one from Ollivander—of that he was fairly certain. But they would never know if he bought a used one here.

The wands were arranged in long rows, dozens of them, in little boxes with plush lining. All chipped, scratched, worn to a fine polish. Each had once been an extension of a witch or wizard's self, carried lovingly for what might have been long decades or short weeks. Harry had thought that most wands went into the ground with their masters, but apparently there were some cases where exceptions were made.

He reached out and brushed a hand over the little boxes, fancying he might get a sense of the wands' previous owners. One in particular caught his attention—a jet black one with intricate carvings in the handle, of beasts twisting around and between each other.

"Ah, that one does catch the eye," a voice commented when Harry reached for it. He jumped, and turned to find an old woman with a patch over one eye standing just at his shoulder.

"Oh?" he asked, a bit unnerved.

"Aye," she nodded, wispy honey-gray hair floating around her face. "But nobody's got the right temperament for it, s'far as I can tell. Most won't touch it; they just look."

"Huh," Harry responding. Feeling contrary, he reached out and plucked it from its case.

A thrum ran up his arm, so deep it felt like his bones rattled. Startled, he dropped it, but like a magnet it jumped back into his hand before it had fallen an inch. He stared at it, heart pounding.

"Well now," the woman said, rubbing her chin. "And what would a boy need with a second-hand wand?"

"Nothing—really I don't," Harry said, and hastily put the black wand back in its little box. "Just curious, I guess."

"Aye," the woman agreed. "Curious. Well, if you ever find yourself looking for some discretion, we have that here too."

"Right," Harry nodded. "Thank you. Er, do you know what this is made of?"

She squinted her single eye thoughtfully. "If I recall correctly, it ought to be grenadilla. Haven't the foggiest idea what the core is, I'm afraid. Could be damn near anything—its wizard came from Tanzania originally."

Harry filed this information away. "Thanks… I'll just keep looking, if that's all right."

She bobbed her head agreeably, and puttered off to another corner of the shop.

Harry sighed in relief, and firmly told himself he would not come back for the wand. But he couldn't help glancing back at it before he disillusioned himself and made for the door.

He tapped Tonks on the shoulder, and she impressed him by twitching only a little. "What took you so long?" she murmured out of the corner of her mouth.

"Nothing important," he said, handing back her wand.

She cocked an eyebrow, but shrugged in acceptance. "Stick close."

They reached the bank with a minimum of fuss. Tonks had changed her hair to a close cut dark red, and darkened her skin just enough that people didn't recognize her as the girl who'd been spotted walking with Harry Potter. Aside from bumping a few shoulders and stepping on a few feet, they didn't have any problems until the tall columns of Gringotts loomed overhead.

Tonks had managed to maneuver them past the gaggle of reporters—they barely gave her a second glance, too busy standing on tiptoe and scanning the crowds below. But when Harry passed through the wide doors, he felt a familiar sensation of warm liquid trickling down his back, and knew the disillusionment charm had been dispelled.

"Shit," he muttered.

"There he is!" the reporters bellowed in unison.

"Run!" Tonks cried, and Harry could swear she was laughing.

"Where are they reading Sirius Black's will?" Harry shouted to a goblin as he darted by. There was something funny about the little being—there was a distortion in the air, a looming shape—but he had no time to look closer. The journalists were coming.

"Third floor, room 36," the goblin growled after him.

Harry shouted a parting thanks before rounding the corner to catch up with Tonks, who had no idea where she was going but seemed intent on getting there fast.

When they found the room, it was 4:12.

"Ah, Harry… and Tonks. Fashionably late, I see," Remus said mildly when they opened the door.

"Sorry Professor—er, Remus," Harry said automatically. "We were—that is to say I was… er, there were a lot of people out today." He cleared his throat uncomfortably, taking in the room. It was lavishly appointed for all that it was simply a chamber with a long table and many chairs. A rich Persian carpet lay under foot, and the table and chairs were all carved with a matching Baroque sort of excess. Velvet draped around massive windows that couldn't possibly face the outside, and heavy golden molding framed a ceiling that seemed to be covered with gold leaf. Goblins certainly didn't do anything halfway.

There were not very many people sitting around the massive table, and the opulence of the room made the group seem even smaller. Harry supposed spending thirteen years in prison and then another two on the lamb had some bearing on the number.

Remus was there of course, looking threadbare in more ways than one. Molly Weasley was sitting nearby, and her appearance was not much better. Arthur's absence was painfully conspicuous. Andromeda and Ted Tonks sat on the other side of the table, and they smiled wearily at their daughter's belated presence. Professor McGonagall was there, which was a little surprising in Harry's mind, but not nearly as surprising as the presence of one Severus Snape. Harry gave the sallow man a long, considering look, one that was returned along with a sneer for good measure.

And last of all…

"Good afternoon, Harry," Dumbledore greeted him quietly from the head of the table. "If you and miss Tonks would please take a seat…?"

Harry swallowed slightly, suddenly all too aware of what they were here to discuss. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to see Sirius' worldly possessions portioned and doled out, as if they were somehow more important than the man himself.

He _did_ want to bolt from the room.

Tonks briefly squeezed the back of his neck in a consolatory sort of way as she went around him to take a seat, and Harry felt a bit of his anxiety vanish. _Okay_. He could get through this. He sat down, and Dumbledore began to read.

It was what Harry had expected. Sirius Black was unfailingly generous, first to Remus, then to the Weasleys, and the Tonks. He had left a heap of wealth to McGonagall, for the Order, with the provision that she oversee its dispersion, as he didn't "trust the old coot to spend wisely." For Snape, there was a long and drawn out statement that was made to seem like an apology but really wasn't, along with the portrait of Mrs. Black and "all of Kreacher's stuff."

It was all so cheerful, full of jokes and humor—Harry could almost hear Sirius' voice, could feel his spirit saturating the words.

How he wished that Sirius would read it out loud, years and years from now, while they gathered around and laughed with him at his folly during a time of war. And then he could crush it into a ball and throw it in the fire, and not think about writing wills for another forty years at least.

But it was only Dumbledore's voice, grave and old, a hollow echo of Sirius' laughing bark.

Harry felt his face crumpling, and put a shaking hand over his eyes. He tried to make a show of rubbing his forehead, but his damnable eyes were stinging, and his chest seemed to be trying to press all the air out of him.

_I gave you up, Sirius_._ I let you go. _Why did it still hurt so much?

"And to Harry," Dumbledore continued. Harry jerked, looking up, and Dumbledore met his gaze. For a brief moment it felt like it used to—a bolstering presence, a quiet confidence. The old man looked down again. "To Harry, who was both a son and a brother to me, most valued of treasures… I know you well, and I know you neither want nor need my worldly possessions. And so I leave you nothing but a rather embarrassing amount of love and affection, along with two very small trinkets that you will find in the keeping of my goblin banker."

Dumbledore slowly lowered the parchment, and looked up. "Signed Sirius Black, May fifth, 1996."

_Just a month before…._ Harry was very still for a moment, and then he scrubbed his face vigorously before standing. "Who do I need to talk to?" He knew he sounded brusque—he could see it on everyone's faces. He didn't care. He needed to get out of there.

"Harry," Dumbledore began. Molly looked heartbroken; Snape was perfectly expressionless, and Remus held his forehead in his hands. Harry didn't dare look at Tonks.

"Please," he entreated, desperate to escape.

Dumbledore's bushy eyebrows knotted in sadness, but he looked down to consult the documents in front of him. "Varnuk."

Harry nodded once, stiffly, and all but fled the room.


	13. Scare Tactics

Chapter 13

Harry kept his head down as he strode quickly through the echoing halls of Gringotts. There were other patrons about, and he wasn't sure what he would do if someone shouted his name, invaded his space, and pressed their sweaty hand into his just now. There was a likely looking goblin ahead, and Harry wasted no time on pleasantries. "Varnuk?"

The goblin barely glanced up from the armload of parchment it was perusing. "Head offices, top floor. Third door on the left."

Harry nodded in thanks—a gesture which was deftly ignored—and squinted after the little man as they passed each other. There was that strange, faintly luminous shape lurking over the goblin, just like the others. It seemed to echo the goblin's movements, but it was indistinct and flickered in and out of view.

Harry pressed the heel of his palm to his left eye and gave his head a good shake. "And now I'm hallucinating," he muttered to himself, hurrying onward.

The wide, grand stairs were a sight, to be sure, but after the sixth flight Harry was too busy wishing the Goblins had installed rail-carts for the upper floors to be impressed.

By the eighth flight Harry was seriously considering just turning around and forgetting about whatever it was Sirius had left him—surely it wasn't worth this trouble.

At the top of the ninth flight, Harry was feeling mildly impressed with himself for not being a wheezing wreck. He was fairly certain the goblins had designed the bank this way on purpose. The urgency of a fiscal complaint surely depended on how difficult it was to reach the head offices, and magic made life a bit too convenient for the average witch or wizard to be a paragon of fitness.

_Not this wizard_, Harry thought to himself. As he'd been chased around by everyone and their dog lately, he got quite enough exercise.

The top step passed under a towering stone archway, supported by pillars of black obsidian. The room beyond was huge—a wide expanse of black stone with gold flecks that mirrored the soaring height of the dome above. Harry thought he recognized it from the outside, one of several such structures that capped the snowy summit of the bank. It was painted a deep indigo blue, with delicate symbols and archaic diagrams detailed in gold.

Massive doors ringed the circumference of the room, each set back into the curvature of the wall and fronted by a pair of obsidian columns.

In the room's very center, there was an odd structure that was comprised of two massive stone pillars standing next to each other, with another set atop to bridge the two. Harry couldn't picture goblins being modern art enthusiasts, and so the purpose of the arch was a mystery. Groups of goblins were scattered across the chamber, looking very important and uncompromisingly busy. They all looked up from their discussions when he entered.

Momentarily flummoxed, Harry simply raised a hand and then pointed to his left by way of explanation. None of them moved to stop him, so he hesitantly continued walking until he reached the third door.

There was a metal plate there, set at eye-level for a goblin, but its inscription was written in what Harry assumed to be Gobbledegook. Sighing to himself, he knocked, wondering if the goblin would even be able to hear him through the thick wood. Why did they even need such massive doors? As far as Harry was aware, Giants didn't open accounts here.

Faintly, he heard a grumbled, "Enter!"

The door was just as heavy as it looked, and the office beyond as well furnished as the meeting room he had just escaped from.

"What can I help you with?" the goblin asked from behind his absurdly large desk. He looked seriously put out at being interrupted from whatever he had been doing.

Harry hated dealing with goblins. They always left him feeling as if every word he said—his very presence even—was an insult to be tolerated. It felt rather like summer with the Dursleys, in fact. As a consequence, his question came out rather clipped. "Are you Varnuk?"

"Yes."

Harry stepped further into the room, and the goblin's scowl deepened. Harry willed himself patience. "I was told to see you about my godfather's will."

"Ah," the goblin said, and paused. "Am I meant to divine a name, or would you care to perhaps enlighten me?"

Harry fought down a twitch of annoyance—true, he may have been a bit presumptuous, but there was no way the goblin didn't know who he was that he should expect him today, and…. Harry squinted. There was that flicker of something—a hulking, spectral monster coming in and out of focus above the goblin. The hairs on the back of Harry's neck began to stand up, and his eye throbbed. He pressed a hand to it, and realized the goblin was speaking. "I'm sorry… what?"

"Are you just accidentally wasting my time, or is it on purpose? I have very little patience for either," the goblin snapped.

"Sirius Black," Harry growled. Since it didn't appear that the goblin would offer, he went ahead and took a seat in front of the desk.

Varnuk didn't bat an eye, which perversely annoyed Harry. "Ah," said the goblin. "And that would make you…?"

"Harry Potter," Harry ground out.

"At the lead of the pack, I take it?" Varnuk commented, donning a pair of spectacles and examining some papers.

"Right," Harry said, becoming progressively more annoyed and hoping the goblin would shut up and get on with it.

"Oh! Well," the goblin said, and seemed pleasantly surprised. He'd pulled out an envelope from one of his many drawers. "He didn't leave you much at all, did he?"

Harry was wishing Sirius hadn't left him _anything_ at the moment. "Right then. Can I just take it and go?"

"I'd be grumpy if all I'd received was a trifle as well, from a man that wealthy," the goblin chuckled. He slapped a bit of parchment and a quill down. "Sign here."

Harry's signature nearly tore the parchment, and he swiped the envelope from the desktop. It was slightly heavy in one corner, but flat. A coin, perhaps. He folded it up and stuffed it in his pocket. "Thank you," he said shortly.

Just before he turned to leave, he abruptly realized what the shape hovering around the goblin reminded him of. Those glowing, branching lines, like blood vessels, growing clearer every second…. Unbidden, the question escaped him. "What _is_ that?"

The goblin blinked once, expression flat. "What is what?"

Harry gestured vaguely at the shape. "That… that…" Did the goblin even know what he was talking about?

He became aware that the little man had gone stiff, eyes narrowing. The goblin's manner suddenly reminded him of a venomous snake—perfectly still, ready to strike. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

Harry advanced on the desk, hands suspended somewhere between strangulation and supplication. "Tell me—just _tell me_ what it is." He didn't care what the goblin did—here were answers. Here was the truth. He would thrash the information out of the little creature if he had to. He gripped the varnished wood, and smoke whispered up between his fingers. "_Please_."

The goblin leaned back slightly. "Yes, well… I will see what I can do." He edged around the desk, as if worried Harry would snap and attack at any moment. "I must, ah, secure the proper permissions, so if you'll just wait here, Mr. Potter, I'll just go and…" And then Varnuk sped from the room.

Harry knew immediately he had made a mistake. He shouldn't have let the goblin leave. And now… now it was probably best to get the hell out of here before Varnuk came back with some compatriots to take care of things.

Either the goblin really hadn't a clue as to what Harry was talking about, and had gone for help to handle the 'disturbed wizard' in his office, or… he knew exactly what Harry was talking about, and for some reason had decided that it was dangerous information.

In which case he would be going to get help to handle the disturbed wizard in his office.

Harry cursed, raking a hand through his hair. He shouldn't have let his mouth get ahead of his brain, but it seemed to be a character flaw that just wouldn't quit. It probably hadn't helped that Harry was already irritated enough to throttle the little berk.

The real question was: how many goblins could one unarmed school-aged wizard handle? And was information—which was by no means a sure thing—worth it?

Harry ground his teeth. One way or another, he was going to get some answers.

To that end, he began summoning the sharp little crystals that made up the modest—by goblin standards—chandelier that hung overhead. They weren't nails, but they would do in a pinch. Hopefully he was just being paranoid, and wouldn't really need them.

He waited, staring hard at the door, and wished he could go alert any of the handful of witches and wizards downstairs to his predicament. Stupid, really, sending him out and about without a wand. But for all he knew, Varnuk could have alerted every goblin in the building, and if Harry had to pick a place to fight them, he'd rather have them bottlenecked at the doorway.

Maybe they wouldn't attack him after all. It was probably better to wait and see what they had to say than to jump to conclusions. It would be a horrible thing if Varnuk had actually gone to put a packet of information together for him, only to have Harry impale him with dozens of pieces of fine crystal the moment he walked through the door.

He was just thinking he was likely overreacting—still harboring demons from his experience aboard the Galloping Galleon and jumping at shadows—when the door burst open.

He instinctively jerked to the side, narrowly avoiding a hissing jet of light. "Wait—I just want to know—" He cursed and ducked again. _This is what optimism does for you_, he thought, banishing his heavy chair toward his attackers. _Next time I'll maim first and ask questions later._

There was a screech, and then the chair burst apart in a shower of splinters—which turned in midair to dart in a swarm straight at him.

Harry yelped and banished a handful of flashing crystal back at them, before leaping to slide bodily across the desk. Just before he dropped out of sight, his shoulder blossomed with pain. He landed hard and scooted up with his back to the desk drawers. A quick investigative prodding found a spray of massive splinters sticking out of his shoulder like porcupine quills, and a patch of red was spreading quickly across his shirt.

A spell crashed into the front of the desk, shoving Harry forward. He glimpsed motion out of the corner of his eye—one of the goblins was trying to angle around the furniture for a better shot. Quickly, he summoned a heavy looking candelabrum to his hand, swung back, and intercepted the goblin's face with a satisfying thwak.

Another curse shot by overhead, missing his hair by inches, but something heavy—a globe or an inkwell—skittered across the desk in its wake, clubbing Harry over the head.

Harry lost his temper.

"_Enough!_" he shouted, turning and banishing the mammoth desk with the force of a thunderclap. It shot away in a whirl of air and loose papers, clearing furniture and goblins alike, before smashing across the open doorway with a resounding bang.

A chorus of howls let him know he'd managed to pin a few of the creatures, but there were still a handful picking themselves up from the wreckage of the office. Harry's gaze darted around in search of resources. _The inkwell!_ It lay shattered, its dark contents spreading over the stone floor.

Harry lunged toward it, ducking beneath a flying curse, and slid sideways across the divide. Rushing light, sound, and sensation buffeted his senses, flipping him about like a finch in a storm. He tumbled, and landed gasping for air—upon the slick stone tiles of Gringotts.

Harry lay frozen in bafflement. Had he failed to cross over properly?

No—it was a different Gringotts from the one he knew, but it was the same building nonetheless.

Harry had no time to ponder it further or celebrate his success—he turned and nearly choked on his tongue. The hulking shapes he'd seen only faintly before were now nearly solid, and where the smaller shapes of the goblins had been composed before of flesh and blood, they were now made up of branching, glowing lines.

After recovering from the initial shock, Harry realized that the goblins—or whatever they were—couldn't see him. They were rushing from the office, out toward the center of the atrium.

Harry followed them. He needed to find his way to safety, of course, but he also wanted to know what they were doing. They were hurrying, but with purpose. He looked up at the lines and symbols that decorated the interior of the dome—and instead of gold paint, they were lit up in blue and white like the night sky. And the crude arch in the center of the chamber seemed to be siphoning that light toward itself, pulling it inward and down where it pulsed and shimmered like a sheet of water.

A chill went up his spine, and he decided that he really didn't need to know what they were doing after all. No matter what he might learn at this point—he wouldn't be able to use the knowledge if he was dead.

A flash of brilliant light blinded him, and it was accompanied by a roaring wind. He raised his hand in an effort to shield his eyes, only remembering a moment later that his hand was glowing as well.

What had happened—? Another flash lit up the dark chambers.

And another. And another.

Harry could see shapes racing toward him through the light. He stumbled, turned, and ran.

Careening through halls that were familiar, across rooms that shouldn't have been there, and jumping down the spaces between spaces, Harry ran. There were branching corridors that had never been in the Gringotts he knew, and where the halls should have led him to freedom, they instead took him other places. He could still see the outlines of wards and the twisting lines of the tunnels far below, layer upon layer of unfathomably deep places, and it made him dizzy.

He could hear his pursuers behind him, but there finally was the outer ward, just beyond what he knew to be the front hall. It sprang up from the stone, so thick as to be nearly opaque, with countless bright motes and sparks rushing upward in a constant torrent. On the other side, Harry thought he could see the crowd of bobbing lights that were the reporters. They were acting strangely—scattering in apparent panic before crossing over the ward—and then Harry could see why.

Crowded up on the other side of the spitfire brightness was a legion of writhing, creeping, crawling black shapes. They howled and railed against the ward, hissing at its touch, moving back and forth before it ceaselessly.

Harry skidded to a stop a hairsbreadth before the barrier, and the dark creatures swelled up like a tide before him.

"Do not go that way, Harry Potter," growled a voice behind him.

Harry spun. He looked up—and up and up—and his jaw dropped. The figures that had pursued him were of monstrous proportions. Nearing two and a half meters in height, they loomed over him in the dark. Powerfully built, with long limbs and wickedly clawed hands, Harry might have taken them for emaciated trolls. But their faces—pointed and clever—looked just like….

"Varnuk?" Harry sputtered, and pointed at them. "_Goblins?_"

The towering beings leered closer, and Harry stepped back. The tide of dark creatures held behind the barrier surged at his proximity.

"You would not last long out there with them, Mr. Potter," Varnuk spoke again. His clever eyes glittered. "It is your choice, of course—we would be well satisfied with your death if you will not cooperate."

Harry grimaced. Certain death under a wriggling, sucking, clawing mass of darkness, or possible death at the hands of these 'goblins?' No, there had to be a third option. Then it hit him—

"_Now you always have water,"_ Karakash had told him.

The horn! There it was, clinging to his glowing form, looking just as it had in the real world. He snatched it up, staring into its hollow center. How could he make it work?

"I'm afraid your little rock will not avail you," Varnuk sneered. "You are in our realm now, Harry Potter."

Harry, who didn't plan on throwing the horn at them, ignored the goblin. _Fill up, _he silently pled, turning the horn this way and that. _Spill out!_ As he turned it on its side, a thin stream of neon blue water trickled out. Yes!

"What—" one of the goblins began, stepping forward.

At Harry's mental request, the trickle turned into a torrent that nearly propelled the horn from his grasp. It flooded the ground, driving the goblins back, and sending Harry slipping toward the barrier. Not good—

He let himself drop through the water, immediately enveloped by flashing light, buffeting forces that pulled and wrenched, and then the pressure that squeezed him down to nothing, before he popped out the other side.

As usual, gravity seemed confused for a moment, spitting him out and then dropping him unceremoniously upon the stone.

No one noticed one boy appearing out of nowhere: the front of Gringotts was embroiled in utter pandemonium. There was a line on the ground—on one side was the bank, along with throngs of panicked reporters and shoppers. On the other side of the line, everything was covered in a thick layer of hoarfrost, people had collapsed to the ground while others sobbed on their knees, and there was hail flying through the air. The dark flurries amidst it all were trying to take on a distinct shape that Harry knew all too well.

"Help me!" he shouted at the petrified onlookers, before summoning his Patronus and wading out into the chaos. Ice crystals bit at his face, and frost grew on his knuckles as he directed the shimmering stag from one huddled figure to another. He knew on the other side he would be pushing through a forest of bodies—scaly, slimy, ravenous creatures—and could feel their grasping appendages go right through him.

He slipped on the ice, and nearly fell upon the nearest victim. "Are you all right?" he asked, pulling the older man to his feet.

Soon, there were other Patronuses flitting through the storm, and they worked to pull those caught inside it to safety. Slowly but surely the hail and winds dissipated.

After it was over, more than one person came up to Harry to pat him on the back, or ask, "How did you know which spell to use?"

"Lucky guess," he told them. Inwardly, the guilt was eating him alive. Somehow, he'd brought those creatures here. He had to figure out how to stop it from happening again. But first he just had to get the hell out of here.

* * *

"Harry!" Tonks said, sitting upright when he burst into the conference chamber. "That was quick—"

"Was it?" he asked distractedly. "They've got really excellent service I guess—can we go?"

"Uh, yeah," she said as he hustled her up. She'd been talking with Remus, who blinked at Harry's demeanor. Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall also looked up from where they were conversing on the other side of the room.

"Sorry—sorry everyone," Harry said, and briefly met Dumbledore's gaze. The old man frowned slightly, but Harry was already pulling Tonks out the door.

"Hey, Harry, did you hear about what happened out front? Apparently there was some kind of flash-frost or hail storm—the whole street is covered in ice!"

"Uhuh," Harry said, walking fast. He wanted out of this place before the goblins figured out where he'd gone. He blinked hard as his vision swam.

Tonks actually had to trot to keep up with him. "Yeah, they were saying that those reporters got caught in the middle of it—they all started feeling chilled, and then—Harry, what's that all over your—are you _bleeding_?"

She tugged him to a stop, and pulled him around. Harry followed her gaze and mentally groaned. His shoulder and arm was slick with blood. "What happened?" she asked, pulling out her wand and carefully pushing his sleeve up.

Harry hissed. "It's a long story—here, I got it…" He held the material out of the way so she could see the weeping punctures. He'd tried to get all the splinters out when he'd appeared back in the real world, but he could see that he'd missed some.

"Christ, Harry," she muttered, weaving a spell that settled over the wound like a dollop of translucent putty. When she pulled it away, all the bits of wood came with it.

"That was weird looking," Harry commented.

"Yeah, it's pretty thorough," she agreed distractedly.

Harry pressed on his aching left eye, wondering if she was seeing the same thing he was.

Tonks shook her head in exasperation, casting quick healing and cleaning spells—Harry hadn't realized he'd been running around covered in ink as well. "Should be good now, but you'll still want to get it checked out by the nurse when you get back to Hogwarts."

He nodded dutifully.

"Seriously, Harry, what happened?"

"I think," he began slowly, "I may have found out something about the goblins that they didn't want found out."

She groaned softly. "Oh Harry, what did you do? Getting on the goblins' bad side is really, really not a good idea."

"I _know._" Harry couldn't help but chuckle. "I'm not sure what it means yet."

"Well, tell me what you think you found out."

Harry eyed her. "What if I told you that when I look at a goblin, I also see… something else. Like another version of that goblin, bigger, but hazy."

To his surprise, she didn't gawk at him, but instead took on a pensive expression. "Can you see anything else unusual?"

Harry nodded hesitantly. "Just bits and pieces here and there. A part of a spell other people can't see."

"And when did this start? Could you always see these things?"

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face. "No, it just started this summer."

"I don't know," she said, frowning. "I have a crazy idea, but you're awfully young… Have you ever heard of Mage sight?"

Harry shook his head.

"Well, look it up when you get back to the castle. I'll do some digging, too, but I'm afraid there's not much published on the subject. But I know that's one thing they sometimes talk about: seeing a certain duality about some creatures." She gave an exaggerated shiver. "Always used to think it was existential bullshit."

"D'you think… Dumbledore?"

"Surprisingly, no," she said, sounding weary. "That would make it easier, wouldn't it? The only wizard I know of who has it—but you would never get an audience with him—is Nicholas Flamel. He's a famous—oh, you know of him?"

Harry grinned wryly.

"What _don't_ you know about?" Tonks teased him, sounding pleased. Then she sobered. "I'm sure there must be more of them in the world, but he's the only one anybody talks about."

"Thank you, Tonks," he said earnestly. He knew he was asking a lot, considering how much she'd already helped him, but… "There's something else I need your help with."

* * *

It didn't take them long to Floo in to the Auror's headquarters—but it did take some convincing before Tonks would agree to go along with Harry's plans.

"Look," he said desperately. Tonks was sitting in her cluttered cubicle with her arms crossed, and Harry was perched on the corner of her desk. "Bahari might not be our guy, but he knows something."

"You say that like you're not planning on smashing his face in the next time you see him," Tonks said skeptically.

Harry couldn't deny it. The man's voice was ringing in his head even now, taunting, laughing. "His signature was on the invitations—he's the secret keeper. He's the one who let me on to the ship. He knows what happened to me, he knows why, and he knows about Mr. Weasley and the Dursleys."

Tonks chewed her lip. Her hair was standing on end and bright blonde, reflecting her agitated mood. "I don't like it."

"I just want to ask some questions."

Tonks leaned forward, her expression serious. "The only reason you're even allowed in here is that you're about to start training in a few weeks. I can't let you go around questioning people—"

"I'm going to find him with or without your help, Tonks," Harry cut in, feeling like a cad, but unwilling to back down. "I don't need Auror clearance to ask questions."

Tonks stared at him a moment longer, before smacking the surface of her desk in frustration. "I'm going to get in so much trouble for this." She stood. "Come on; I know who we can talk to."

They wound through the warren of desks and cubicles in the lofty Arena, as Tonks called it, trying to avoid the curious gaze of more than one on-duty Auror. They passed through the double doors that took them out into the Ministry proper (Harry furiously patted his hair down over his scar), took an immediate right, and went through a doorway that read 'Department of Magical Surveillance and Census.'

"Paper pushers," Tonks clarified in a murmur. Harry snorted.

They descended several flights of stairs—each level seemed home to flocks of witches and wizards at work doing unintelligible things with gigantic sparkling orbs, vast walls covered in glowing runes, or stacks and stacks of monstrous rolls of parchments. There was even a floor that seemed wholly dedicated to a vast and shallow pool of water, around which crowded dozens of witches and wizards who seemed to be hotly debating whatever it was they saw.

To Harry's disappointment, they kept going down several more levels until they reached a rather underwhelming room which—though it was difficult to tell being that it was so dark and dusty—seemed to be full of towering rows of horizontally rolled up parchments. Some were old and yellowing, some were rather crisp, but they all shared a trend toward being ridiculously massive—each roll was at least seven feet long and a foot in diameter.

"Oh, hello N—Tonks!" spoke up a rather timid voice.

Harry gave a start—he hadn't seen the small man at first, but it wasn't all that much of a surprise, since the man's desk was drowning under scrolls and loose bits of parchment, and illuminated just as poorly as the rest of the cavernous room.

"Hi there, Warner," Tonks replied as they approached the desk.

Harry squinted at the man. He had rather mousy brown hair and unremarkable features, and his nametag clearly read 'Warren.' The man didn't seem to mind the mistake, though—his face had lit up in Tonks' presence, and he practically begged, "Can I help you with anything?"

Harry found himself scowling, and carefully schooled his features. It wasn't Warner's—Warren's—fault he was smitten.

Tonks seemed to capitalize on the man's obvious infatuation, and reclined casually on the edge of his desk. Warner—_Warren!—_hurriedly cleared some papers out of the way for her.

"Actually, yes," she said, smiling. "We were hoping you could help us find something. Some_one_."

Warren's eyes flicked only briefly toward Harry. "Not that I'm not flattered—because I am!—but don't you think you'd have more luck with—"

"Well that's the thing," she interrupted. "We kind of want to keep it quiet. And I knew you were good at keeping things quiet."

Warren swallowed. Harry regarded Tonks with no small measure of surprise. Her gaze darted to meet his and he thought she might have winked.

"Um, well—well yes, I could probably…. Who is it that you're looking for?"

Harry didn't want to do anything to jeopardize the spell Tonks seemed to have over the little man, and was happy to let her do all the talking. "Bahari."

Warren pushed away from his desk and rolled his chair around the corner of the nearest row of scrolls. "Living or deceased?"

"Alive," Tonks said, as she and Harry followed the rolling man. "Male."

"Huh," Warren said, pushing himself along in front of the rows with his wand raised. Harry couldn't fathom what he was doing exactly, but he thought he could see faintly glowing lines of runes floating at the wand's tip. "Nationality?"

"We don't know, exactly," Tonks said, looking to Harry for confirmation.

"Probably Indian," Harry supplied.

"Current country of residence?"

Tonks shrugged. "That's what we need you for."

"Yes, I'd imagined. Never hurts to check, though…" Warren trailed off, zipping away around the end of the row. Tonks and Harry exchanged a look and followed him.

"Well," Warren was saying, as if he hadn't noticed they weren't right next to him. "There are thousands of Baharis—and several hundred of them are magical or have magical relations." He looked up at them.

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face. Was it possible the man they were looking for wasn't even a wizard? Inspiration struck. "Do you have access to ship registries?"

Warren tapped his wand against his hand pensively. "Yes."

It was clear he was beginning to question the search, and Harry wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

Tonks came to the rescue. "Can you look for a Bahari currently working on a magical vessel?"

Under Tonks' gaze, Warren suddenly became pliant again. "Of course!" He rolled back to the front of the rows, following his wand, and moved down two more. "Here we go—it looks like there are a handful, but most of them are deckhands on fishing vessels… there's another working on a research crew… and an Amir Bahari who is the first mate—ah…"

Tonks and Harry both perked up at the last one. Tonks spoke. "What? What's the problem?"

"Look," Warren said, leaning back uncomfortably. "I really don't want to get into this whole mess, okay?"

"What whole mess?" she prodded.

"This… this, you know… there are way too many people with fingers in that pot, and I don't want—"

"You don't have to do anything," Harry broke in. "Just tell us where we can find him. That's it."

Warren stared at him for a moment, as if finally seeing him for the first time. Then he looked down and shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, but I can't help you."

Harry looked at the little man, and thought of all the ways he could make him talk. This… person was the only thing standing between him and finding the man who was responsible for taking Arthur and the Dursleys, and holding Harry himself captive. And this person was refusing to talk because he didn't want to get 'involved?' Harry's hands twitched with a desire to thrash the little man. "You _can_ help me, and you will," Harry heard himself say.

Warren looked up quickly—whatever he saw in Harry's eyes made him swallow.

Harry just raised his eyebrows, waiting. Either the man would tell him now, or he would tell him after Harry flung him around a bit. Harry's patience for the day had run out.

"Yeah," Warren said, licking his lips nervously. "Yeah, okay." He continued to nod to himself as he finally got up out of his chair and moved down the row.

"Huh," Tonks said, giving Harry a sideways glance. Harry just shrugged.

Warren finally picked the roll of parchment he wanted, and tapped it with his wand. It began unrolling at a furious pace, pooling on the floor as rows and rows of script flew by. Then, just as quickly, it came to a halt, and a long line of writing lit up. "There you go," Warren said, looking sullen. "Have fun." He grabbed the back of his rolling chair and walked back toward his desk.

Tonks watched him go, before moving to read over Harry's shoulder. "Well, there went my brownie points for the month," she muttered.

"Sorry," Harry said quietly. "He was annoying."

"You were just jealous," she joked, poking him in the shoulder.

"Was not."

"What have we got?"

"I'm pretty sure this is the guy we're looking for," Harry murmured, reading. "Looks like he has two residences here in Britain and two more in India and Pakistan…. The Galloping Galleon—that's been docked until the investigation wraps up, I guess—and then this place." He pointed to an address halfway down the line.

"I know that area," Tonks said, wrinkling her nose. "Pleasant. Let's go."

* * *

A short time later found the two of them crouching in a narrow alleyway across the lane from a rather austere and forbidding old building. Even at the height of summer it had the feeling of winter about it. There were no trees or shrubs around, and the sun had passed behind clouds. There was nobody else about, and Harry was working hard to ignore the ripe stench of garbage that pervaded the area. It didn't help that the docks were only blocks away.

"Is this how you Aurors normally do things?" Harry asked doubtfully.

"Normally we wait for nightfall," Tonks murmured back. "And normally all of us are actually Aurors, and we have an assignment to be here, and a warrant to seize or interrogate someone—and a more complete profile than just a name and an address."

"Oh." Harry frowned. "Well, this _is _something that you guys should already be looking in to—"

"Please don't remind me," Tonks replied, brow furrowed as she watched the building through a pair of what looked to be aviator goggles. She twiddled a dial and muttered, "Looks like a muggle building..."

_Floo hookups in at least three of the rooms, _Harry thought, squinting at the faintly glowing fireplaces.

"There are three places here with floo access… If I remember correctly, I think the one we want is the one on the fifth floor." She paused, pulling the goggles up to rest on her hair, and frowned.

Harry raised his eyebrows, hand frozen on his chin. "How can you tell?"

She tapped a lens on the goggles. "Tracers—that's what they're for."

"Really?" Harry asked, riveted. "How do they work?"

"Hell if I know. I just use the equipment—we have nerds for when we want some inventing done. You thinking they have something to do with your...?" She wagged a finger at his eyes.

Harry's mind was racing. Maybe if he could figure out how these Tracers were made, they could provide him some clues. "Maybe. Can I try them?"

Tonks grinned and shook her head. "Rookie," she murmured, handing them over. "Come on."

She disillusioned them both, and Harry could just barely make out her form darting across the street to follow her. He pulled the Tracers on when they paused beneath the fire escape, out of sight from the street behind a big trash bin. He noticed a difference immediately—magic was brighter, wards were clearer, and he could see residue from spellwork that was likely quite old. It was like taking all the glowy bits from the other side, and superimposing them on the real world. "Wicked," he breathed.

"Different?" she asked, while quickly dispelling the charms.

"Stronger. Clearer. Who invented these?"

"Hm. That probably means something. I think…" She trailed off as she inspected the band, tugging Harry's head closer. She barked a laugh. "They're made in China."

Harry blew out a raspberry that turned into a sigh. "That figures."

"I'll ask my nerd guys at the department; I'm sure they know more. Okay, I'm going to teach you a really handy bit of magic, but you have to promise not to abuse this, all right?"

"Yeah, sure," Harry readily agreed.

Tonks eyed him with a rather kooky expression that made her look eerily like Moody. Harry had to stifle a snicker and he could see she was having a hard time controlling her face as well. She pulled the goggles away from his face and let them snap back playfully. "Focus, whelp. This is called the gecko charm. The incantation is _Setae Reproba_, and the wand movement is like this." She drew a small circle in the air over her knee. "The gesture limits size of the sticky area—if you were to encompass your whole body, well… you would stick like a limpet, I'd expect. Give it a go."

Harry, very aware of the fact that he still didn't have a wand, raised a hand to give it a try anyway.

"Oh, right!" Tonks said, and handed him her wand.

"Thanks," he said, grinning sheepishly.

"Oh, also—don't cast it on your hands. Lots of trainees have broken fingers that way, trying to pry their hands free. You have to have the right kind of leverage."

Harry grimaced. "Good to know."

In short order, Harry was following Tonks up the side of the brick building, shimmying along on his elbows and knees. It took some getting used to, but after several repetitions, the suction and release movements became effortless. "This is so cool," he enthused softly.

"One of my favorite spells," Tonks admitted from above. Harry was trying not to enjoy the view too much. "Can you tell how close we are?" she asked.

Harry reluctantly peered around. This close to the rooms, it was harder to tell, but if they were on the fifth floor, then that greenish glow must be it. "Looks like a few windows to the right," he said quietly.

Tonks moved off, creeping sideways and occasionally getting a handhold on windowsills or bits of plaster molding. Harry followed, his heart in his throat when his left elbow pulled some rotten brickwork loose and sent it clattering into the alley far below.

"Careful," Tonks whispered. They were very close to the window, now.

Harry looked up, having regained his equilibrium. "Yeah…" Through the wall, he suddenly saw a bloom of spell-fire. "Tonks!—_Protego!_" Harry cast desperately, stretching out a hand.

The spell bounced off his shield in a shower of sparks, just over Tonks' head. "Shit," she cried, ducking. Then, pulling an arm free, she cast a concussive curse through the open window, before pushing off the wall with her feet and flipping up into the building.

"Holy…" Harry breathed, before scrambling up behind her. An abortive shout from above suggested Tonks had kicked the man in the face.

Harry hung below the window briefly while a stray spell crackled by overhead, and then hauled himself up and into the room. Tonks had just cast a stunner at her opponent—a rather heavyset, dark featured man—who responded with a vicious slashing hex. Tonks blocked it with a levitated ottoman, before banishing the battered piece of furniture across the room.

Harry jumped in to the fray with relish, lifting and banishing a heavy looking couch at the same time.

Faced with two flying projectiles, the man squeaked and raised a thick shield.

The ottoman bounced off, and the sofa cracked itself in half over the flashing barrier. Harry summoned the carpet out from under the man, sending him arse over kettle with a clatter.

Tonks pounced, lashing the man with an uncomfortable looking binding hex, and growling, "_Silencio_," for good measure.

As the dust settled, they both moved over to survey their catch. Tonks, slightly winded, patted him on the shoulder. "I don't know how the hell you did that, but we're definitely going to talk about it later."

"Sure," he said, trying not to feel too anxious. Unnecessarily, he added, "You were amazing. I wish I could flip through a window and kick somebody in the gob."

"Takes practice," she said with a wink. At unspoken agreement, they both leaned down and lifted the man by his shoulders to deposit him roughly on one half of the ruined couch. Tonks leveled her wand at him. "You try anything beyond answering our questions, we start breaking fingers. Understand?"

The man nodded, eyes watering.

Harry frowned at him.

Tonks removed the silencing charm, and asked, "What is your name?"

"Amir Bahari—look, you've got the wrong guy, I can tell you—"

"Do you work as the first mate on the Galloping Galleon?"

"Yes!" Bahari cried, looking profoundly relieved. "You know me, then? You see, I am an honest man—"

"Are you the one who writes the invitations for the Galleon's annual cruise?"

Bahari stared, as if he was cottoning on for the first time. "No—no…"

"Don't lie to us, Bahari," Harry said, restraining his temper. "We know it's your signature on those invitations. You're the secret keeper, aren't you?"

"No, no," the man repeated, looking frantic. "I'm not the secret keeper—I just put my name on them, I swear to you!"

Harry knew a little bit about manipulating people. He'd seen many of the most adept at work from a young age. Uncle Vernon, and even Dudley to an extent, had used their physical presence to intimidate. Professor Dumbledore used a sympathetic ear, a veneer of harmlessness, and carefully measured approval or disapproval. Lucius Malfoy had employed money as his clout, along with a finely honed edge of aristocratic disdain. Severus Snape had perfected the fathomless stare, the aura of menace, and the cutting tongue. Yes, Harry had seen his share of manipulations.

Now he shared a quick look with Tonks, before affecting a weary glance skyward. Slowly, slowly he paced around the side of the sofa, to where Bahari couldn't see him anymore, and spoke in a quietly disappointed voice. "I thought I told you not to lie to us."

Bahari, straining to see what Harry would do, almost fell over his own words. "I'm not lying—I'm not lying! I just sign them—they come in the post, and I sign them, that's all! It's just misdirection…"

Harry grabbed the man by the back of his neck, startling him badly. "_Who_ sends them to you?"

"I…" the man stuttered. Harry dug his fingers in, and despite the iron clamp on his temper, the man's skin began to heat. Bahari panted in fear. "I—I don't—I can't tell you!"

"Yes you _can_!" Harry snarled.

"I can't! I swear to you—the knowledge is protected!"

Harry was silent for a moment. "Are you saying that there is a secret keeper for the secret keeper?"

"Yes!" the man sobbed.

Harry nearly went blind with frustration. He shoved the man's head forward roughly, turned, and kicked over a chair with a strangled howl.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Bahari babbled. "Please don't hurt me—"

"_Silencio_," Tonks muttered, before angling her head at Harry. Fuming, he followed her to a far corner of the room where the man couldn't see or hear them.

"I think he's telling the truth," Harry muttered. "At least as far as it not being him—I'd recognize the man who held me captive. I'd recognize his voice."

"Okay," Tonks said, looking pensive. "Well this isn't necessarily a dead end."

"How do you figure?"

"I think he'll tell us where the secret keeper for the secret keeper is if we apply a little of the right kind of pressure," she said, cocking an eyebrow. "As far as informants go, he's the softest I've seen in a long time. Which tells me he's afraid of getting hurt—but it also tells me he has a lot of faith in this other secret keeper. He'll talk."

Harry nodded, eyes settled on Bahari.

"Harry," Tonks added, getting his attention. "Tone it down a little, and I think you'll scare him more."

Harry smiled grimly. "Bad cop?"

Tonks winked at the muggle reference, pressing her finger to her lips, and they moved back over to the trussed up man. Tonks moved around front to address the man, while Harry stayed silent behind him.

"Here's the thing," Tonks began, crouching down in front of Bahari in a sympathetic manner. "My partner is still a little bit green when it comes to interrogating people—but what I really mean by that is that _sometimes_ he gets a little bit out of control, and I can't always stop him before he does lasting damage, okay?" She scooted a little bit closer, and Harry could tell the man was hanging on her every word. "Now I'm going to do you a favor and tell you that he doesn't lose his temper like other people. The calmer he seems, the closer he is to snapping your neck. So just… don't do anything to piss him off—like lying—because I might not be able to stop him. I'd really rather not have to explain why we knocked off _another_ bloke this week."

Harry leaned down right next to Bahari's ear. "But I wouldn't mind at all."

Bahari sang.

* * *

"I have to say, Harry, you were quite impressive today," Tonks told him later. They were back at the Dragon's Perch, sitting at the bar this time, nursing a couple of drinks. Harry had a butterbeer, while Tonks was imbibing something a bit stronger. "I mean, you can be a little intimidating when you want to."

Harry ducked his head, feeling uncomfortable. "I've always been pretty good at acting." Soon, though, the warm feeling of accomplishing something important buoyed his spirits. "Today was…"

"Right?" Tonks enthused. She sighed into her drink. "Felt like the old days. No tip-toeing around, just going out and taking injustice by the jugular."

"You _are_ old," Harry agreed seriously.

"Piss off, you," Tonks laughed, shoving him in the shoulder.

They joked around for a bit longer, but soon the conversation turned serious.

"So what happened back there, with the shield spell, and then you summoning the carpet? Has anything like that happened before, or was it accidental?" Tonks asked.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Not… exactly. There's something weird going on with my magic. You saw, at the Weasleys—how it just flew out of control."

"Yes," she agreed. "But this is different. Wandless magic, Harry. That's big, that's… kind of spooky. And all of it together…"

Harry let his chin rest on his bottle of butterbeer. "I've been getting a lot better at it. At first, I could summon my wand. I don't even remember the first time I did that. But ever since I lost my wand, I've been trying things, practicing." He darted a glance at her, before looking back at the bar. "Something's… happening to me."

He didn't know what he expected from her. A suggestion to talk to Dumbledore, maybe. But the hand that reached to grip his was as warm as her voice. "I'll do whatever I can to help you, Harry."

They talked for a while longer about inconsequential things, but night had long ago fallen, and eventually Tonks had to take Harry back to the castle.

"So I'll find out everything I can about this guy Altair Mengal," Tonks was saying as they crunched up the long road to the castle.

"I still think it's weird that the captain of the ship is the secret keeper's secret keeper," Harry said.

"We'll just have to be ready for anything," Tonks advised. "Bahari gave up his guy too easily, in my opinion. He's not going to be a pushover. We'll have to do our homework. Make sure you look over that introductory coursework I gave you, yeah? And I didn't say this, but try to do something about getting a wand."

Harry nodded. They parted at the castle steps—Tonks giving him a sharp jab on the shoulder. Harry watched her go, feeling full to the brim and strangely empty at the same time.

He stopped at the kitchens on his way up through the castle for a few sandwiches. His owl and two notes were waiting for him when he reached his room.

"Lo, girl," He greeted her, tossing a bit of roast beef her way. She snapped it up appreciatively, twittered a hello, and swooped out into the night.

The first note was obviously from Hagrid.

_Harry,_

_Was wondering if you might help me with a bit of a problem—for some reason my pumpkin patch has gone and flooded, and I could use a hand draining it. If you're busy today, it's no problem. Just let me know._

_-Hagrid_

Harry was immediately suspicious that this flooded pumpkin patch was more than it seemed. He fervently hoped Hagrid hadn't already taken care of it—what would that do to a fledgling pond spirit?

The next missive was from the goblins, although there was no marking on the parchment to positively identify it.

_Mr. Harry Potter,_

_As we are sure you are aware, there are several very pressing matters which we would desperately like to discuss with you. It is with our deepest apologies that we extend this invitation, and sincerest hopes that you will find it within your great heart to forgive the Goblin Nation our severe trespass against your person._

_We request your presence at your earliest convenience, and have selected a neutral setting for this meeting to take place, and a portkey with which to transport you there. To activate it, simply state your full name. If you have any questions or concerns, please send an owl. We await your confirmation._

Out of the folds of the letter tumbled a tarnished silver sickle. Harry wasn't sure whether to laugh outright—as if he would willingly walk into a meeting with the goblins, eyes closed! He set the portkey aside, feeling disturbed.

Harry leaned back and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. There was a goblet of water on his bedside table—Pistol had probably put it there, being thoughtful as usual—and Harry absently tossed the liquid out the open window.

"Bad day," he muttered.


	14. Harry Gets Crackalackin

**KIND OF IMPORTANT; READ THIS, YOUS GUYS: **Hey there, those of you who have yet to delete Ectomancer from your alerts! Thanks so much for your faith (or laziness, hehe)—basically, I let the story languish for a while, and then rewrote large parts of it. So this is me letting you know that all thirteen of the old chapters have been replaced, and you wouldn't be wasting your time to reread. And hey! Here's a new one, too! Anyone interested in getting early updates, or just keeping tabs on progress (or even a ridiculous number of talented authors and stimulatin conversation) should head on over to the forums at Dark Lord Potter dot net, and more specifically the Work by Author section. Anyway, hope you enjoy.

CHAPTER 14

Harry awoke with an idea.

It was a singularly unpleasant one, and the thought of executing it filled him with dread, and for a long time he lay there in the dim predawn, mind scrambling over what he had learned over the past few weeks.

The connections between this side and the other side were only a precious few, and he had exhausted several avenues already. So, while this last idea left him with a deep pit of anxiety, he was beginning to think it might be his only option. There was one element that connected this world to the other side that he was absolutely sure of.

Dementors.

And all of his reading agreed on one point: the secret of their origins was buried with them where they dwelt. Which meant going to Azkaban.

It was an idea he wanted to dismiss out of hand, but his brain would not stop turning it over.

It wasn't even quite light out when he swung his legs out of bed, startling Hedwig, who had been loyally keeping watch over him from his bedpost.

"Sorry, bird," he said, smoothing down her ruffled feathers. "Too many things to do, and no time to do them."

Before he could swing into motion, he noticed the envelope—the one from Sirius—poking out of the pocket of yesterday's stained trousers.

Suddenly terrified that the contents might have been obscured by ink, he took it out quickly. To his relief, only a corner was stained, and he sighed. Carefully, he unfolded it and spread it flat on the bed. He wondered what Sirius had been thinking, when he put the little package together. Had he been smiling as he worked? Had he been sad? Resigned?

He looked at the way Sirius had written his name, the lines quick and easy. Happy, then. Maybe there was a joke in the little envelope, somewhere.

Harry sighed, took up the precious package, and worked open the seal. Inside were two items. One was an ornate key that might have been silver, but had oxidized to a dull black, with an elaborate 'M' stamped upon a five-rayed star, twined with leaves and fruits. The other was a square of thick parchment that fairly bristled with little glowing runes and equations in all colors—but to normal eyes it appeared to be a very simple line drawing of a man with longish hair and a little goatee. There was an empty speech bubble next to its face.

Harry studied these two baffling objects, unsure what to make of them. Clearly they would require more than a cursory examination. Unfortunately, he had more pressing concerns at the moment, and put them away with reluctance.

He dressed quickly, praying that Hagrid wasn't awake yet, or that perhaps some beast required the big man's attention on the other side of the grounds. He wasn't sure there was a good way to explain himself if Hagrid found him talking to an oversized puddle.

It was as he was striding across the dewy grass toward Hagrid's hut in the half-light, thinking that 'puddle' really wasn't a fair assessment and would probably hurt Mud's feelings, that he realized how strange his life had become.

"Bloody wet shoes," he muttered. He could just make out the dim shape of Hagrid's hut against the darker mass of the Forbidden Forest. Hedwig twittered half-heartedly from his shoulder, and he patted her sleek feathers. "You're clearly not getting enough sleep, pretty bird," he chided.

She didn't dignify his comment with a response, but only turned her head to give him a flat stare.

Harry grimaced. "Touché."

As his footsteps sluiced through the dewy grass, he grew ever more aware of the nearby presence of the Black Lake. He felt it like a baleful stare itching between his shoulder blades, massive and dark, just out of sight but heavy with frightful possibility. What number of creatures could come crawling up out of the lake? What massive beast could fit through a gateway like that?

His imagination helpfully conjured up a hulking leviathan that would loom so tall that it disappeared into the low hanging clouds, and so vast that it would clutch at the slopes around the lake to pull its twisted mass from the depths….

Harry shuddered and walked faster, Hedwig's talons tightening on his shoulder to keep her balance.

A breeze picked up; with it came the sounds of wavelets hitting the shore, and oh how easy it was to imagine it was something coming up out of the water.

By the time he reached Hagrid's hut, he was ready to sprint at the drop of a hat, and he probably could have kept going for at least five kilometers. A dim glow of candlelight came from Hagrid's windows, but the lantern by the door was gone, and the smoke coming from the chimney was the thin wisp of a dying fire.

There was Hagrid's pumpkin patch, and it was indeed under water. Harry smiled despite himself, wondering what Mud had been thinking when she picked the spot. Lonely for human company, maybe?

He crouched by the soggy edge, and Hedwig leapt from his shoulder to alight on Hagrid's roof. Poking a finger in, he called softly, "Little Muddy!"

Ripples formed out in the middle of the water. At first he thought it was just from the wind, but then they turned into splashes coming toward him, as if something invisible was bounding across the surface. "Hi Harry!" responded a breathless, childlike voice. "I did it, Harry!"

"Yes you did!" Harry said, filled with delight. "And did you have a fun trip?"

"Yes!" the little spirit enthused, finally poking her head out just slightly. The water took on a slight glow where it touched her, and after just a few seconds, the top of her head began to turn transparent. "I met lots 'n lots n' lots—" she broke off to dunk back under the surface, and came up fully opaque again, "and lllots of creeks. And there was a _river_, and she was soooo fast, and there was another one who was kind of mean, but he said—he said that someday maybe I could be a creek, and then sooomeday maybe I could be a river _too—"_

"Wow," Harry said, "that sounds like an amazing adventure!" He noticed that Mud was slightly more articulate than before. Maybe she'd picked up more water? He'd have to ask Karakash how it all worked. "Hey Mud?"

She ducked back under, and up again with a small 'plip!' "What?"

"Would you mind too terribly if we moved you somewhere else? My friend Hagrid is trying to grow some pumpkins here, and they don't grow very well when they're under water."

"Oh!" she breathed, looking around dramatically. "I did'n know what they were. Okaaay, I guess."

"Okay," Harry affirmed. "You wait here for a little bit, while I go find a good spot, all right?"

"Mmhm." She nodded.

Harry patted the top of her smooth little head, and then set off. He skirted the lakeshore for a little while, carrying a wan ball of light in his hand. He found a likely spot that was still in sight of Hagrid's hut, near the trees but not so high above the lake that Mud's water would leach away into the ground.

After a moment of mental preparation, he began summoning and banishing great chunks of earth, carving out a bed for the little pond spirit. Hedwig swooped back and forth overhead, making a game of catching his hair on her way by. Soon the sky was turning pink, and long bars of light reached out over the peaks above the lake, heralding the sunrise.

When Harry began to hit rock, he figured it was deep enough, and decided to line the banks with sand and stone so that Mud would have an easier time retaining her water. Finally satisfied, he flopped to the grass and wiped his forehead. "Hey Mud!"

He saw her leap out of the pumpkin patch in a bright arc, catching the morning sun. She bounded over the grass toward him, almost fully translucent, pulling her water along with her like a ribbon of glass.

"Pretty!" she shouted as she flew by him. Her wake spattered Harry with droplets, and she leapt into the basin like the unbroken stream from a garden hose.

Harry ducked and covered his head, but was drenched anyway. Despite himself, he ended up laughing—Mud was so excited she turned her basin into a whirlpool, crashing against the boulders at the edge and sending up spray.

"Argh," Harry laughed, rolling away from the edge. "Silly creature—"

"Harry?"

He nearly choked on his own spit—it was Hagrid, coming out of the trees. Harry's heart was galloping—had the big man seen anything? He tried to put on an innocent face, while Mud slowly calmed to a gentle swirl. "Hello Hagrid!"

"Wha's all this, then?" Hagrid gestured with a pair of pruning shears that were the size of a shovel.

"Oh—just practicing," Harry said quickly, wiggling his fingers. "Went ahead and moved that water for you—seemed kind of urgent."

"Well that was right kind of yeh," Hagrid said, looking bemused. "Coulda waited fer the sunrise, but…"

"No problem," Harry assured with a smile—which became rather fixed when he noticed Hedwig stubbornly trying to take a drink from Mud's pool, while Mud kept squirting little jets at the bird. "I just hope your pumpkins survive."

"Ah, they'll be fine," Hagrid said. " I'm abou' ter feed the Acromantulas—would yeh care ter join me?"

"Er, that sounds like fun, Hagrid, but… " Harry scrambled for an excuse. "I was about to go up to the kitchens for some breakfast."

"Ah, yeh'll be missin out! But yeh do need ter eat more, and make no mistake," Hagrid chuckled. He ruffled Harry's hair, before stumping off toward his cottage. "Yeh know where ter find me if yeh change yer mind!"

Harry waited until the big man was safely out of earshot. "Mud?"

She poked her head up, an inch from his knee, and rested her little paws on the rocks. "What?"

"How do you like it?"

Her gecko eyes sparkled. "Wicked! So clean—no more dead leaves or gunk or old shoes! Can you get me some fish? I aalways wanted some fish. And a snail!"

Harry grinned at her. "I'll see what I can do. Hey Mud, I have a question."

"Okay!"

"I'm trying to call a river—kind of like how I called you. But he doesn't answer. Do you know why? What am I doing wrong?"

"Oh…" She frowned, looking down. "I asked th' nice river for you. She said… She saaaid… Oh! She told me you have to be touching the right water. If you have some of th' right water, you can call them. That's what she said."

Harry smacked himself in the forehead. "Of course. I'm an idiot." The water that came from Karakash's horn—it must have its genesis in the river itself.

"No way, you're ba-rrilliant!" Mud cheered, before leaping away to whip her pool up into a frenzy. Hedwig squawked from her place by the bank, flapping into the air.

"Not the word I would use," Harry muttered to himself. An idea niggled in the back of his mind. "Hey Mud, one more question."

"What?"

"Is there anything you can do to keep the dementors—and all the rest of them—from coming over to this side?"

"Sort of," she said reluctantly. "An' only when they try an' come through _me_. I'll try harder next time; I just get tired really fast."

"Is that why you froze over?"

She frowned, coming to rest near his knee again. "Iunno, I guess. I feel like I have more energy now. Plus _he's_ over there." She tilted her eyes toward the Black Lake.

Harry followed her gaze, and despite everything he'd already seen, felt a chill. "Right."

Mud lowered her voice to a whisper. "He's sorta scary, though."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. But it did explain why nothing had crawled up out of the lake to find him yet. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet.

"Oh!" Mud cried, when she realized where he was going, and disappeared into her pool.

Harry walked to the very edge of the lake, trainers crunching across the coarse sand and stones. The water lapped quietly at the shore, but he could see the bottom drop sharply into the deep just a meter out. The surface of the lake was choppy in the morning breeze, picking up accents of gold where small whitecaps formed. The ridges in the distance were hazy and indistinct. It was a captivating scene. Not intimidating at all.

Not at all.

Harry crouched, and let his hand touch the surface. He took a steadying breath. "Black Lake?" he called.

The water was dark, and very deep. He knew just how deep, from having swum in it during fourth year. He could see pretty far out, and beneath the sparkling waves that caught the sun, it was a uniform steel gray.

As he was watching, though, a shadow seemed to fall across the water. Darker and darker it grew, as if the lake were filling with ink. Unconsciously, he took a step back. An edge formed, one that nearly reached the shore, growing more distinct in the deep. Black as pitch, the impossibly huge shape lay just below the surface for as far as he could see.

Then, just a little ways out, a disc appeared, fifty meters across and hazy in the water. But Harry could see that it was yellow, slightly domed, with a dark center. And it seemed to be focused on him.

It was an eye.

The whole world rumbled, and Harry lost his footing, too shocked to catch himself. The line of the lake's horizon bowed upward just slightly, as if the creature would surface, but it was so vast that it never broke.

Harry realized it wasn't just rumbling—it was speaking. "_Child_," it boomed, so low Harry almost couldn't understand the words. "_Fear not_."

"Easier said than done," Harry stammered, his voice sounding absurd in contrast.

"_Mine is to protect," _the leviathan thrummed, "_not to harm._"

"Oh," Harry managed. "That's good."

The eye drew closer, clearer in the water. Waves surged against the shore. "_What do you wish of me, Potter-child?_"

"Do you—can you protect Hogwarts… from dementors? And all those other things trying to get through? Can you keep them back?"

"_Yes, child. They flock to you, but it will take untold numbers to overwhelm me. I am mighty."_

Harry sagged with a relief so profound that it left him dizzy. He hadn't realized how much the constant worry and paranoia had weighed on him. And—just maybe—this Azkaban idea wasn't as suicidal as he'd thought. "And what about you? Can you leave the water?"

"_If I must_," the leviathan rumbled. As if to prove it, the line of the horizon bowed again, before settling out. "_But it is very difficult. Should you wish, you may come across the divide, that we might view each other properly._"

Harry had the feeling that the Black Lake was a prideful lake. "You're already quite impressive from here," he said, watching that massive eye. He was never going to go swimming again. "Thank you," he added. "For protecting us."

"_It is my duty," _the lake thrummed, sending little rocks skittering. "_But I am glad for it._"

"And sorry about the baby squids. I didn't know you had a consciousness at the time."

"_Fear not,_" the lake assured him once again. "_I like them._"

* * *

Harry spent the rest of the day in preparation. He was running out of time before school started; there were only three weeks left, in fact. And Snape was supposed to show up at the castle any day. He needed to make the best of the time he had left, because he didn't think anyone would be pleased with him skipping classes to go globe-trotting for clues about the Other side.

"This is a bad idea, Potter," he muttered to himself. But if there were a way to get in and out of Azkaban safely, he _knew_ there was information there he could use. Even if it was something as simple as how to control the creatures, it would be a huge step in the right direction.

So. _Hypothetically_, he cautioned himself.

He would need a few things: first, a decent wand. Second (and perhaps even more important) he needed protection beyond a patronus. He wished there were some way to bring the Black Lake along, but that was probably impossible—at any rate, it sounded like a common trait amongst water spirits. If he could just figure out how to call Karakash…. Third, he needed to know exactly where his objective would be. And finally, he needed a way in—and it had to be from this side, since the Other side would probably be suicide.

Sighing to himself, he began to plot in earnest. If he couldn't satisfy those requirements, he would simply find another way to gain information. Although he was down to parlaying with the Goblins (which would nullify the advantage of a water spirit's protection, not to mention he had no way of knowing what their actual disposition would be. At least with dementors, he _knew_ they wanted to suck out his soul), convincing Peeves to spill (which, given that the poltergeist could go through walls, would make it impossible to pin the spirit), or tracking down Voldemort and finding out what the hell he was up to.

Having choices was great.

At any rate, to fulfill his first criteria, he knew he couldn't go buy a wand (used or new) because of his bloody probation, nor could he ask Ollivander for tips. So he did himself a favor and went to look up a bunch of dead, famous wand-makers, and wrote them all down. Then he went walking around the castle to ask the paintings if any of the wand-makers had portraits there.

While his request sped through the castle, Harry went back to the library to bury his face in more books. Specifically, he wanted to find out what that strange wand at the second-hand shop had been made from. Grenadilla, it turned out, was another name for African Blackwood.

_African Blackwood, _he read, _is often mistaken for ebony, due to its uniform black color. In fact, it is a member of the rosewood family, and the black color is actually an extremely deep purple. This wood is strongly aligned with the energy of Saturn, which is known to block other energies, and represents the end of cycles and the energy of the underworld. As such, African Blackwood is an excellent medium for blocking the energy of other magic, and communication with the dead. Blood magic or magic related to death would be highly effective with this wood. It acts as a conduit between the physical and spiritual realms._

"Well that sounds… ominous," Harry muttered to himself.

Then he remembered: Vernon had a pen—one that he prized above all other pens, because it had been a gift from his boss for his tenth year at Grunnings. Harry knew it well; it had always fascinated him with its dark, swirling grain, but of course he'd never been allowed to touch it.

Just as Harry was considering whom he could ask for a favor, Hedwig dropped by with a note from Hagrid:

_Harry,_

_Did you feel that earthquake earlier? I nearly fell off the barn roof! _

There was a drawing of a little stick figure with a giant bushy beard, who was indeed tipping backwards off of a roof, while squiggly lines framed it all. The figure's mouth was wide open, and the eyes pointed off in different directions.

Harry chuckled, before composing a request to the Weasley twins for a particular writing utensil. It was with a certain measure of vindictive satisfaction that he sent Hedwig off again.

"What's Potter up to, eh?" Peeves asked, rising up through the table.

"Hey Peeves," Harry said, watching as the poltergeist floated upside down over the scattered books, peering at their contents. "Haven't seen you around in a while."

"Wand woods, oh my," Peeves cackled. "Planning some arts and crafts? Planning on breaking some rules? Ol' Peevesy really should tell somebody about you, Potter; you're a slick one."

Harry leaned forward with a cajoling grin. "Come on Peeves, wouldn't you rather help spread a little chaos?"

Peeves laughed again, flipping around in the air. "Slick, you are! Slick as Slytherins! So what's the angle, Potty?"

Harry considered just asking the poltergeist flat out what he knew about the Other side. It would probably just frighten the spirit off again, but if he could get the poltergeist to open up, it would be worth the try. Harry lowered his voice, drawing the spirit closer. "Okay, Peeves, I'll tell you. But first you have to tell me something."

Peeves' grin split wide. "Something! There! Your turn!"

Harry stifled a sigh. "Tell me what you know about the Other side."

Peeves gave a start, and turned his gaze to the ceiling. "Well, the Other side is the side that isn't this side, ain't it?"

"You know what I mean, Peeves. We've already talked about this."

"Haven't the faintest clue what Pottsy's talkin' about."

Harry scowled at the poltergeist. "I'm serious."

"No you're not; he is!" Peeves pointed over Harry's shoulder.

Without thinking, Harry whipped around.

Of course, there was nothing but the empty library, with its still shelves and chairs and tables. But beneath Peeves' wild cackles and his own flash of fury, there was an itching between his shoulder blades—like there was something watching, unseen.

"So—gullible—" Peeves squeaked out between uproarious laughter. "Shoulda—seen—face—"

Harry threw a banisher that hit Peeves like the fist of a giant, swatting the poltergeist across the room and through the wall, out of sight. The sudden silence left Harry's ears ringing, and he realized he was standing, breathing hard.

He sat down slowly, and scrubbed his hands through his hair. It had been so quick that time. One minute, he'd been fine, and the next…

That little shite had been asking for it, but Harry had to do something about his temper before he really hurt someone.

Just as he had calmed down enough to pull a book toward himself, Peeves came whizzing down through the ceiling. "That was quite a trick, Potter! A sporting gent might say some retaliation is in—"

"If you ever make another crack about Sirius, I'll get rid of you in a permanent way, Peeves. Understand?"

Peeves studied him, wariness tingeing his expression. "Fair enough, Potty. So—what's midgety little Potter up to?"

Harry glowered at him for a moment longer, still tempted to send the spirit flying. "I told you. I need to know more about the Other side. So either you tell me, or I've got to break into Azkaban."

Peeves clapped his hands to his cheeks. "Hah! Always knew you was a nutter!"

"I don't bloody _want_ to go, but the easy resource won't tell me a goddamn thing!

"Told ya, I did; ain't dead, is Peevesy," the poltergeist said. "Don't know nothin' about it!"

"You do, or you wouldn't be afraid of it," Harry said. He narrowed his eyes. "You're a poltergeist—what do you have to be afraid of?"

Peeves, to Harry's deep frustration, finally just ignored the question, flipping around in the air. "So why's Potter tryin' to land himself in the slammer?"

Harry scowled at the spirit, and gave up with a sigh. "The why's not the important part—it's the how I'm worried about."

"What's the hang-up? Pull some shenanigans like usual and get arrested, Pot-head."

"Not practical. I can't be detected."

"Sounds like Potty needs a patsy," Peeves mused, crossing his legs as he floated.

Harry had thought of that—asking Tonks for help seemed like the obvious choice, given her ministry connections and the fact that she had already helped him before. But he knew he was already pushing her limits with this Altair Mengal business. There was no way in hell she would help him break into the wizarding prison. And anyone who might help willingly (Ron came to mind, and Hermione, if she could be convinced of the mission's necessity) would be without the requisite skills to be of any assistance. The thought of asking one of the Order members made him snort. "No," he said. "I can't ask anyone for help, either."

Peeves swooped down through the table and up again, a finger raised. "Make it your business to be at the wizardy prison!"

"Already thought of that," Harry replied, frowning. There were plenty of criminals out there to catch, not to mention Lucius Malfoy skittering around in the ether of the Other side. "But it's not like they'll let me personally deliver people to the prison doors. And what other business do they have in Azkaban? Food deliveries, laundry maybe… but I'm sure that's all checked and double checked."

"True," Peeves muttered. "A suspicious and cowardly lot, they are."

Harry quirked an eyebrow at the misattribution, but only shook his head. "It has to be the guards. Without knowing more about their routines, though…" If only he had access to someone who had done time there. If only Sirius… or even Toliman. Wait…. He snapped his fingers. "Hagrid!"

He left everything where it lay, and practically flew down to the gamekeeper's hut. He was exceedingly grateful to find Hagrid just setting to making lunch, and primed for idle conversation (which Harry planned to direct very carefully).

"Dunno what yeh get up to all day, Harry, but I sure am glad to see yeh keeping yerself busy," Hagrid told him, while poking two massive steaks of unknown origins in a cast iron pan. Harry thought his steak could probably feed about twelve people.

"Nothing very interesting," Harry said. Fang was sitting on his feet, and would tilt his big head back to gaze at Harry dolefully every time Harry stopped patting him. "Mostly reading and wandering around the castle, when I'm not out here with you."

"Must be righ' fascinating reading, then," Hagrid chuckled. "Better be careful, Harry—Hermione's rubbin' off on yeh."

While they ate lunch—turned out it was Aurochs, which explained why the steaks were the size of hubcaps—Hagrid told Harry excitedly about the new brood of Acromantulas that had just hatched, and wanted to know, would Harry like one for himself?

Harry—imagining Ron's reaction to such an acquisition—sadly had to decline.

"Are yeh sure?" Hagrid pressed. "They're righ' swee'hearts when they're so tiny."

"I'm positive," Harry said, trying not to laugh. "Remember when Ron was having problems with Hermione's cat? Forget speaking to me ever again, he'd probably try and murder me."

From there, it was easy to steer the conversation toward others of Hagrid's erstwhile pets—Aragog, of course, who had tried to eat Harry and Ron; Fluffy, the three-headed demon dog who had tried to eat pretty much everyone; Norbert, who nearly burned down Hagrid's house and poisoned Ron; and finally the Wooly Aurochs, who had tried their hardest to trample Harry into a discolored smear.

"Sorry 'bout tha', Harry," Hagrid said sheepishly. "Didn' rightly know wha' they planned ter do with em."

Harry shrugged. "It was hardly the worst thing that happened to me on that ship."

Hagrid cast him a pained glance. "Tha' don' hardly make it any better, lad."

"There were some that had it worse than I did, anyway," Harry said, and frowned at the memory. "The other people they had fighting were actually on _loan_ from Azkaban."

Hagrid shook his bushy head sadly. "Just ain' right, wha' some folks get up to these days."

"They told me they were happy just to get out of Azkaban. One even said he'd rather die fighting than to go back there." Harry watched for Hagrid's reaction, while trying not to seem like he was watching.

The big man shuddered slightly, and gave Fang a more vigorous pat than the dog was probably used to. "Can hardly blame em," he said.

There was his opening. "You were there for a little while, right? What's it like? It can't be bad enough that you'd rather die…"

Hagrid sighed, and fiddled with his teacup. "Well, the firs' thing yeh need ter know abou' Azkaban is tha' there's varyin' degrees o' incarceration, see? There's the holding cells, where I was, on the highes' level. Then as yeh go further down, the severity o' the crime an' their treatment of yeh goes up."

Harry frowned. "The worst offenders are on the ground level?"

Hagrid hesitated. "Not exactly. Yeh'd have ter see it to really get it, I s'pose. At any rate, I don' really know wha' goes on at the very lowes' levels, and frankly I'm happy ter keep it tha' way. They say some prisoners go down, an jus' never come up."

Harry took a moment to digest that. "So, I know there's the dementors, but what else could make it so horrible?"

"Oh, it's not jus' the dementors, Harry," Hagrid said in a hushed tone, hunching further over his tea. Harry felt a pang of guilt for putting his friend through this, but he needed to know. "When they take yeh there, it's all very hush-hush. Yeh don't get ter see anyone, or speak ter anyone; they take yeh to a little room down in the Ministry, and portkey yeh off so yeh don' even know where yeh're goin'. An' suddenly yeh're standing on the top of this ruddy inhospitable pillar o' rock, the wind fit to knock yeh off, and so cold yeh know the hairs in yeh're nose have just froze off. An' the sky—jus' dark, yeh know, like yeh're in some part o' the world that never sees the sun."

Harry grimaced, and made a mental note to dress warmly.

"So they take yeh down into the bowels o' the rock, an there may be a hole poked through to let the 'ligh'' in every once in a while, but the place is dank, an' dark, an' all yeh can hear an' smell an' taste is the cold damn sea. They only took me down a little ways, an' my cell had a cot an' a window an' all—not tha' yeh could see much outside. If I recall, my level had only one or two dementors tha' would patrol tha' whole ring o' the tower. But they came by jus' often enough that yeh couldn' get comfortable, couldn' get ter sleep withou' nightmares. As soon as yeh did, they'd come swooping by outta the dark again.

"Meal times, they would close the dementors off somewhere so the guards could come by and feed us."

Harry jumped at that. "So the guards know spells to control them?"

Hagrid grimaced. "I suppose yeh migh' say tha'. Fer whatever reason, the creatures seem ter listen to em. Heard tell of guards havin' ter 'put some down', but I haven't the faintes' notion o' what that means."

So something strange was going on in the depths of Azkaban, and the guards had ways of controlling—and possibly even destroying—dementors. _Shit,_ Harry thought. _I really am going to have to do this._

"Hard ter eat in tha' place," Hagrid said, looking mournfully at his plate. "Yeh jus' knew someone had probably given up and died righ' where yeh sat."

"I can't imagine anyone wanting to work there," Harry said. "How can they stand it?"

"Can' figure," Hagrid said. "S'like workin' on a ship, so I was told. Yeh stay for weeks or months, and then yeh get leave. Has ter pay well, I reckon. The guards have their barracks righ' near the top, an' there's kitchens an' all. Dunno what they do ter keep from goin' crazy. There's almos' no contact wi' the outside, cept for emergencies."

Harry stared into his teacup. "With all of that, I don't understand how Death Eaters keep breaking out."

Hagrid seemed to pull himself out of his funk, with their transition back to the present. "Mos' people don't know abou' it, but word from our Ministry folks in the Order is tha' they're having trouble keeping the dementors under control lately. Can yeh imagine, in a place like tha'… only you and maybe a dozen other wardens, tryin' ter keep everything under control? Blimey, but there are some things tha' just don' bear thinking abou'."

It sounded like a nightmare. Harry's imagination was only too helpful in supplying him with images of panicked guards, running through the dark, cavernous halls, trying to keep dementors from sucking the souls out of helpless prisoners, trying to close them off or chase them down, trying to keep their prisoners from staging an escape, hundreds or thousands of miles from any sort of assistance…

But now he had some idea of what he was dealing with. The task seemed more daunting than ever, sure, but he knew for certain it was the best lead he had.

"I'm just glad you didn't have to stay there long," Harry said earnestly.

"So am I, Harry," the half-giant said, a smile crinkling his eyes. "A place like tha'… it changes a person. Shouldn' exist, in my opinion."

They chatted for a little while longer about other things—fledgling griffons and pinfeathers, and how funny it was when they tried to climb up your leg with their little claws. Harry finished his lukewarm tea, thanked Hagrid for lunch, and trooped back up to the castle.

The idea of breaking into Azkaban, now that it was more than just an abstract concept, left him feeling cold. But this was his best chance to actually learn something. He just had to make sure nothing went wrong.

"Famous last words," he muttered to himself.

The next trick would be finding his guard. If he wanted to remain undetected, he couldn't replace one (and didn't have the necessary skills or supplies to do so, in any case)—he would have to shadow the guard, figure out what the portkey was, and find some way to either duplicate or replicate it.

But who would be likely to know an Azkaban warden personally? It would have to be someone in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Tonks might, but the odds weren't great enough to risk asking her. Warren in the scrolls room would be able to look it up, but Harry wasn't about to go ask him to search for Azkaban guards. If he went to see Warren at all, it would be with a name already in hand.

Well, there was one thing Harry was fairly certain of: a witch or wizard coming off a stint at the wizarding prison would probably be a drinker. So he could try the Leaky Cauldron, the Three Broomsticks, or the Hog's Head, but that would be a crapshoot. Wait, there was one place—

Marty O'Shea—the bartender at the Dragon's Perch! A prison guard would be most comfortable amongst other law officials, and Marty would know them.

All Harry had to do was figure out the workings of a portkey, get a hold of Tonks' fang necklace, get himself to the pub, and he would have this thing in the bag. It would be a good test run.

No problem at all.

Unless he couldn't puzzle out any way to cheat a portkey—then he was pretty much back to square one.

It was a good thing he already had one to practice on. Though it was a pittance, he was grateful for any bit of fortune that came his way. He trotted up to his room to retrieve the goblin sickle, before returning to the library. It was a long night.

* * *

"Master Harry," came Pistol's scratchy voice from near his elbow. Harry woke with a start, and had to un-stick a page from the side of his face. As usual, the area behind his left eye was throbbing, and he had to blink several times before the wizened little house elf came into focus. "The Fat Lady is wanting to speak with you."

"Just Harry, Pistol," Harry murmured, yawning. He had fallen asleep in his seat. Morning sunlight streamed through the warped glass windows, heating the fabric of his shirt to an almost uncomfortable degree.

It had been a trying ordeal to figure out the art of portkeys. He'd begun in one place, and had been forced to backtrack through theories and permutations until he understood the principles. Portkeys were a persnickety branch of magic, with untold numbers of possible variations. But once you got down to the bare bones, they had a logical structure.

Which wasn't to say that Harry understood precisely how they managed to warp time and space, but he _could_ figure out when, where, and why it would happen.

Over the basic framework of inscrutable arithmantic equations and the runes that activated them, one could layer their desired parameters. To Harry's eye it was a very detailed diagram of faintly glowing wave lines and symbols, but to the average witch or wizard, it would be as simple as constructing your spell through words and will alone.

The complicated part came in doing everything in the proper order to achieve your desired outcome. For instance, a very simple portkey would activate on touch, and take anyone to the predetermined destination one time. There was very little to screw up, but you could still manage to end up with a portkey that did nothing at all.

A more complex one might be timed, or only activate on a password, or by a specific person. It might work once, or it might be used multiple times, or even only on certain days. There were some that were made more difficult to trace by bouncing a witch or wizard through several locations before reaching the final destination, and only by digging deeply through the layered parameters might one be able to find them all. There seemed to be an infinite number of ways to build a portkey.

The consequences of getting things out of order were almost as numerous, from ending up on the wrong side of the world, to having the portkey activate randomly, to getting you stuck somewhere in between locations (and what became of those unfortunate folk, no one quite knew).

He'd rendered the goblin's sickle portkey inoperable, having dissected the bits of magic and leaving equations and modifiers hanging open. But he knew he could put it back together again, if he decided to.

It was a headache. And Harry was almost positive, after his exhaustive investigation, that the portkeys to Azkaban were likely the most convoluted in existence.

He scrubbed his hair roughly, and addressed Pistol's message about the Fat Lady. "Where is she?"

"She is trying to fit in the fruit painting."

This made sense upon reflection that the library actually had no moving portraits—Madam Pince would not tolerate any excessive noise from them—and the Fat Lady probably hadn't been able to find him. Harry put away his books, tried to straighten himself up, and made his way down to the kitchens. Sure enough, the Fat Lady was just visible over the curve of an orange, ducking low to fit her eyes into the small space between the fruit and the frame.

"Aren't you a bit cramped?" Harry asked her.

"Yes, in fact," she said, sounding put out. "The scale of this painting is quite inconvenient."

"I know there's a landscape just down the hall…"

"No, no, it's fine," she insisted, shifting to look at him with one giant eye. The effect was creepy. "We've managed to locate one of your names, but she refuses to leave her frame." The Fat Lady sniffed at this, as if she couldn't imagine staying stationary.

"Perfect. Where is she?"

"Near the stairs to the Astronomy tower. I do hope you will only need to speak with her once, for your sake."

Harry groaned, almost wishing he'd waited before sending Hedwig off—he might need her to send for supplies, if he had to go all the way up there.

Lancia McLathe was right where the Fat Lady said she would be—sitting primly in a white dress and a white witch's hat, amidst riotously colorful flowers. Harry had noticed that even the very old paintings did not seem to lack for bold colors, unlike their muggle counterparts, and wondered if witches and wizards had used magic to expand their classical pallets. Lancia's hair was pale and whispy, and her chin rather small and pointy. There was a fragile look about her, moon-struck in the same way Ollivander was.

"Hello, Ms. McLathe," Harry said, slightly winded from his climb.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter," she replied in a voice that was altogether startling in its crisp depth. "I understand you have some questions about wands?"

"Yes—er, before we start, can I ask how old you are, exactly?" Harry knew that paintings (and ghosts, for that matter) had different ideas about age than the living, and he was rewarded when she puffed up proudly.

"How kind of you to ask, young man. I was born in the twilight of the fourteenth century, and lived to see the dawn of the sixteenth. One hundred and twenty, on my last day—I was beheaded. An exciting time," she added, smiling wistfully.

"I'll bet," Harry said, thinking he was rather glad to have missed it. Violence and corruption and political turmoil—well, put that way, maybe things weren't so different. "The reason I ask—aside from satisfying my curiosity—is that I wasn't sure whether you'd approve. I'm trying to make a blood wand."

"Ah! Useful little things," she said, delighted. Then a knowing look crossed her features. "Oh, but they are not precisely in style anymore, are they?"

"No, not really," Harry said wryly. "I was almost chucked in Azkaban for it, actually." He levered the table-leg wand he'd brought up with him.

"Oh my!" she said, covering a laugh with her hand. "You did do a patch job of it, didn't you?"

"I was under pressure, and with limited resources," Harry said, somewhat crossly.

"No, no, I meant no offense. For a sophomoric effort, I have seen much worse," she assured him, still smiling. "Very well, I shall help you Mr. Potter, because I am sympathetic to you in general, and because you came all the way up here to talk to me, when I so rarely get visitors."

So Harry took a seat cross-legged on the stone floor in front of her portrait, and she began to teach him about making wands.

She told him about selecting the woods, and preparing them—the drying, curing, shaping, and varnishing. She told him the spells to carve and drill, set and seal. She talked about core materials, and which creatures were considered the most coveted and potent.

"A phoenix feather?" she marveled when Harry told her about his lost wand. "My, but that is a shame. What I would have done to be able to work with phoenix feather, boy, would curl your hair."

"It's driving me crazy," Harry admitted.

"Perhaps you can convince your feathery friend to grant you another?" she suggested. "I daresay it would make a good core for your blood wand."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, puzzled. "Isn't my blood supposed to be the core?"

Lancia gave a crisp laugh. "Of course not; you would end up with a very fancy stick that did nothing at all!"

"Hang on," Harry said, frowning. "Aren't wizards technically magical creatures?"

She still had a smile playing about her lips. "Yes, certainly, but not in the same way a dragon or a unicorn is. There is no latent magic in our physical bodies—we are simply able to tap and harness the magic in the world around us."

Harry was feeling rather foolish. He turned the table leg wand in his hands. "So it must have been the troll blood, then?"

"Troll blood?" Lancia scoffed. "Certainly not. Perhaps troll horn, but troll blood would hardly have more effect than that of a human."

Harry gave her a flat look, raised the table leg wand, and transfigured a nearby suit of armor into a banana plant. The wide leaves held a slight metallic sheen, but it was otherwise quite good.

"Either it's the troll blood," he said, "or it's my blood. There isn't anything else in there."

Lancia had her hands on her hips, looking back and forth between Harry and the plant. "Quite irregular," she murmured. "I suppose we could give it a try. You may be able to salvage your wand wood later." She squinted at him. "I have known your family for many years, Mr. Potter. There is no fey ancestor in your line, and certainly nothing within recent memory that could account for this anomaly. I admit that I am quite perplexed."

"I know the feeling," Harry said wryly.

She took a breath, seemed to rethink what she was about to say, and then said, "And your magical performance has been average, among your peers, has it not?"

Harry considered. Average? Yes—he was certainly better at defense than many, but there were others who excelled over him at transfiguration, herbology, potions… "I guess," he shrugged. "Up until this summer, anyway. I've been losing my temper a lot and kind of destroying things on accident."

Lancia gave another quickly stifled laugh. "Oh, how I feel for you, dear. Life will insist on being difficult, won't it? Can you recall anything that may have heralded the change?"

"No," Harry grumbled, frustrated. "All of this just started happening out of the blue. I feel like I've been devoting every waking moment trying to figure it out."

"I am sorry, Mr. Potter," she said with feeling. "Truly, if I could help you further, I would. But alas, it sounds like nothing that I have heard of. I had thought, perhaps… but with this sudden onset—there must be something that has affected you, that you are not aware of."

Harry wracked his brain, trying to think back to the beginning of the summer. Nothing noteworthy came to mind, aside from the obvious. And he was pretty sure Sirius'… death… could not have precipitated all of this.

"Very well," Lancia said, snapping him back to attention. "It shall be an experiment! Do you know where to find the materials that we discussed?"

"Yep." Harry was eager to move on to the practical portion.

"Good. Gather everything you will need. I shall wait for you."

"Thank you for doing this, Ms. McLathe, I really appreciate it," Harry told her.

"It is my pleasure, Mr. Potter. Oh—before you go, do not forget about your strange plant."

* * *

Hedwig returned while he was raiding Snape's potions stores.

He knew it was an altogether bad idea, that Snape would notice eventually and likely suspect Harry, but all Harry could think when he thought of Snape was, well… Snape could go fall in a hole and die.

This mental image put him in such good spirits that he realized he was actually humming as he poked through the hundreds of little drawers in the dusty back room.

There were only a few things he needed, anyway, and they were so specific to wand making that Harry doubted Snape would notice them missing for months at least. Getting access had been the easiest part of all; Harry had simply asked the house elves to let him in. He knew they could do it, since Dobby had been able to acquire gillyweed in Harry's fourth year—and none of the elves were particularly fond of Snape.

Although Harry had been obliged to promise to replace the supplies when Snape asked.

As if Snape would ever 'ask.'

He felt a smile stretching his face again, and shook his head. The last ingredient he purloined was a vial of distilled gorgon venom—everything else he would be able to take from his own potions kit.

Hedwig found him in the hall as he was climbing up from the dungeons. She had a note in one claw and a little wrapped package in the other.

"Lo, Hedwig!" he called as she banked around, dropping her payload on his head. He caught them as they fell, and she alighted on his shoulder from behind. "Oof, bird. Look at you, you barely fit anymore!"

Hedwig bit him on the ear. He chuckled at her pique, and opened the note while he walked.

_Harry,_

_We feel the need to express our concerns about what is obviously a deteriorating mental state, and would like to make sure that you are aware that pens are sold just about everywhere._

_But far be it from us to question the whims and wiles of the Great Harry Potter, for surely there is a higher purpose in your strange request, and so we did go out and we did acquire this Kingly Pen among pens. If you would care to share _(here the letter was obviously taken from the twins by Ron, as his familiar scrawl covered the page:)

_Oy, Harry, what's all this about a pen? Are you really that bored up at that stuffy old castle? It's kind of funny, you sending Fred and George off on strange errands, but Mum's in a right snit about how we shouldn't be leaving you alone for so long. And blimey, you should see Hermione— _(Ron's last letter was drawn out in a long line, as if the parchment had been snatched right out from under his quill.)

_Harry! _(this was obviously Hermione's handwriting) _I really hope you're staying out of trouble—I mean, I say that, but I've just got this feeling that you're up to something, and if you are, could you please tell us? I just know something funny is going on, with you being so secretive, and I know you haven't been spending all of your time twiddling your thumbs! I mean, if it's a secret that you can't write about, then that's okay, but don't do anything—(_here a few things were scratched out)_—just be safe, Harry!_

_-Hermione_

_ AND RON_

_f & g (pen enclosed, unless your crazy bird drops it)_

Harry sighed, and resolved to reply with a properly reassuring letter. He wasn't sure exactly what it would say, since they were all probably well warranted in their concern—he was planning on breaking in to Azkaban, after all.

He ripped off a corner of the parchment, and wrote a quick note to Tonks, asking if she wanted to have tea tomorrow, and let Hedwig take it in her downy talons. "Sorry, girl, but I've got to send you off again. Take this to Tonks?"

The owl very nearly rolled her eyes, before biting him once more on the ear, and taking flight.

Harry continued on up through the castle, collecting the rest of his supplies as he went, until he finally found himself before Lancia McLathe's portrait once again. "Ah, very good," she said, watching critically as Harry laid out his tools. "It will be interesting to see the effect of building one blood wand with another."

"I hadn't even thought of that," Harry said, frowning at his table leg wand. "Sounds like we'll be lucky if any of this works at all."

"Chin up," Lancia admonished cheerfully. "Now set your cauldron on a low flame—yes, just so…"

It was a painstaking process, but with the old wandmaker there to guide his steps, Harry's new wand slowly took shape. While the cleansing potion set up, Harry stripped the pen of its mechanical parts, so that it was reduced to just the rich, black wood. It hummed in his hand, as if well pleased to be there, but it was different from his holly wand.

The holly wand felt buoyant, joyous; almost like a song.

This one was a predator under his hand, with the lazy growl of a sated animal.

While he soaked it in the cleansing solution, Lancia had him mix up the interfacing agent which would coat the inside of the wand. She told him about how normally the wand core would be carefully set at both ends, but since his would be a purely liquid core, they needed only to seal it properly.

She had him practice the spells that would extract his blood (just the right amount) and transfer it cleanly and painlessly into the wand core several times while the wood dried. It was a fascinating thing to see—his blood simply beaded up from his arm, and the little globules flowed into the end of the hollow wand until it was full. Then there was a suspension spell, to keep the core components from deteriorating, before capping each end with a gluey material that glowed slightly, and another spell to seal.

The gorgon venom was part of the final potion, a curing agent that was applied liberally to the outside seven times, until the midnight wood was saturated.

And finally, Lancia encouraged him to give the wand some aesthetic finesse. "Just a good polish, or perhaps some scrollwork on the end…"

Harry considered it closely. It still looked segmented, from its time as a real pen, into two parts. He focused on the bottom half, and carefully transfigured the surface, carving a stag, a dog, a river spirit, and a half-dozen other creatures, all twining around one another.

The other half, he polished to a perfect smoothness.

"It is handsomely done," Lancia said, watching him. She clapped her hands together. "Now to see if it works!"

Harry already knew what spell he wanted to use. He tapped himself on the head, and felt the telltale sensation of cold liquid dripping over him.

"Good heavens!" Lancia gasped. "It works! And your spell—why, I can see no line nor ripple; it is truly flawless!"

Harry removed the charm, tingling from head to foot. He felt as if his grin would split his face, and the sleek little blood wand purred. "Wicked."

* * *

The last thing he did that day was to transfigure a shallow bowl in the stone floor of his room, and fill it up with water from the river spirit horn. This was the final detail he needed to iron out before he could set his plans into motion.

Dipping a hand in, he said, "Karakash."

There was a whooshing, sucking sound, like a terrible wind, that built into a great crescendo. Then there was a moment of silence.

The quiet was shattered when the shallow bowl of water exploded in all directions, instantly soaking Harry and dousing every light.

"Argh," Harry shouted. "What the hell, Karakash?"

The river spirit's massive, beautiful head reared out from the basin, ethereal in the dim room. "Fuck! Stupid boy so stupid! Jee-crise, you take so long a' do everything! I bet you take five month to tie shoe! Five year to take shit!"

"_You call, I come,_ what the hell is that?" Harry shouted back. "It's not my fault you had to be as ambiguous as possible!"

"Not ambiguous!" Karakash rumbled. "How much more specific you need? You have Karakash water! You call Karakash name! Very simple! Jee-crise!"

Harry scrubbed his hands down his face. "What is that, your new catch phrase?"

"Stupid boy is jealous he not think of it already!"

"Never mind," Harry sighed. "Karakash, I need your help."

"Karakash so freaking surprised."


	15. NonTraditional Applications

**Sorry for the monumental wait, everybody. The story is still alive; I just suck at real life apparently. ;)**

Chapter 15

"So what you need help with, stupid boy?"

"For starters, you could stop calling me that," Harry growled.

"Fine, stupid," the river spirit quipped.

Harry just rubbed his brow, and refocused on the task at hand. "Remember how you wanted me to find out more about the magic that trapped you?"

"Why else I bother associate with you?" the spirit sneered.

"Right," Harry said, reminding himself to breathe evenly. "I think I've found a couple of places where they're manipulating the boundary between this side and the Other side. One's with the Goblins, at Gringotts."

The river spirit hawked and spat, leaving a little glowing blob on the rug.

"Okay," Harry said after a moment. "The other place is Azkaban."

Karakash cocked his noble head. "Azkaban?"

"Yeah, you know, the wizard prison."

Karakash bared his teeth. "Why Karakash supposed to know about wizard prison? You think I give two shit about wizard criminal?"

"I dunno, you knew what Gringotts was," Harry grumbled. "So you don't—"

"I know where is prison," Karakash interrupted loudly. "Just not stupid name."

Harry tossed up his hands. "Okay, so—"

"These place are gateway," Karakash went on, as if Harry hadn't spoken. "Weak place between here and there. Like water, only no guardian. Holes. Place where stupid person rip."

Harry licked his lips apprehensively. "Could you do that, if we went there? Guard the gateway?"

Karakash tilted his head, looking skyward. "At wizard prison, yes. Dementors no match for Karakash. Goblins—Karakash can eat some greasy little bastard, but only some. Can't keep them from crossing."

Harry tried to ignore the cold pit dread growing in his gut. It was looking like the Goblins were the less viable option, and that wasn't what he wanted to hear. "How come dementors can't cross over, but Goblins can?"

"Dementor need soul to cross. Goblin already pay toll."

"Dementors don't have a soul, but Goblins do?" Harry clarified.

Karakash rolled his eyes. "Dementor have to eat soul to stay on this side. To stay on this side, have to have soul and body. No soul, can't stay. No body, can't stay."

Harry knew that this was somehow vital to understanding everything, but he wasn't sure what it meant. "And what about you? Could you stay on this side?"

Karakash smirked. "Water spirit more special. Only need one."

Harry looked at him blankly. "You mean…?"

"You get Karakash body, or you get Karakash tasty soul."

Harry blanched. "No bloody way! I'm not letting you suck out somebody's soul!"

Karakash sighed in disappointment. "Then you get body. You super awesome wizard, probably take two second!"

"What, like a person?" This discussion was making him break out into a cold sweat.

The river spirit shrugged. "Karakash don't give shit. Just need skin and bone."

Harry calmed slightly. "Can they be old skin and bone? Like leather?"

"Live skin. Live bone. You figure out, yes? Then Karakash help."

"How big?" Harry asked, hardly able to reconcile the fact that he was seriously considering creating living tissue out of magic.

Karakash eyed him. "At least human size. Normal human, not you—you freaking scrawny."

Harry scowled at him.

* * *

Before he started trying to figure out how to get an empty body for the irritating river spirit, Harry decided he would meet with Tonks tomorrow first, and see what she had to say about Mage sight and wandless magic. Maybe there were avenues there that he hadn't been able to see in his own readings.

He lay awake in the quiet dark, thoughts churning. Hedwig had yet to return from delivering his message to Tonks, and Karakash had gone back to wherever he went on the Other side. The room was still and silent.

It felt like he was the only person in existence. Like this whole castle was empty, and the grounds were empty, and beyond the forest, people and cities had ceased to exist.

His bones felt weary, as if little bits were being worn off every day. His joints hurt. His eye hurt. He felt as if the gravity of the earth had increased three-fold, like it would be impossible to even lift an arm. The silence was so profound that it was a roar of white noise against his eardrums, except for the beat of his own pulse.

He was so very tired. He couldn't remember a time when he'd been able to truly relax.

Now, there were so many things to worry about that he forgot some of them, until they came back to haunt him in the dead of night. Ron's father was missing. The Dursleys were missing. Someone had abducted and tortured him. The Ministry was corrupt, and its leader had a personal vendetta against him.

And Voldemort. Harry had to kill a man who was so formidable that people feared to speak his name. And he had to do it while grappling with magic that was going haywire, and trying to figure out what this Other world was, and why he could see things other people couldn't. And he would have to do it alone. And there would be no rest for him, because he knew there were hordes of things trying to get through just on the other side, reaching through goblets with glistening, creeping limbs.

And… his best chance to make sense of any of it was to go to Azkaban, deep down into the cold and dark, where criminals went and never came back.

"Harry?" whispered a small voice.

Harry went absolutely still, every sense straining.

"Harry?" It was quiet and child-like. Could it be Mud? "Harry, come here."

He sat up slowly, heart hammering.

"Come here," it whispered. It sounded like her, but Harry couldn't make his voice work to say her name. "Harry," it called. "I have something for you."

There was a vase of wildflowers on the little table by the window, and something began pushing them up, a little at a time. They rose up and fell over the lip of the vase, falling quietly to the floor. The air felt heavy.

A chill shot up Harry's spine, and buzzed in his toes. He couldn't work up enough spit in his mouth, and his voice came out a rasp. "Mud?"

"Harry," the voice repeated, in the same quiet whisper. "Come here."

The last flower flopped out of the vase, and a sharp crack sounded. A fragment of ceramic bulged outward.

_Fuck_. His blood wand flew to his hand almost without thought, and he lowered his feet to the floor. "Mud, is that you?"

There was no response; only a child-like breathing.

Harry crept closer to the vase. Another crackle, and a bit of ceramic fell. Harry grit his teeth, raising the wand. The breathing grew louder, eager, and he leaned over to peer in. It was impenetrably dark, but the water wasn't freezing. Not a dementor. And it _did_sound like Mud. Was she trying to play a trick on him?

The vase burst apart. Harry recoiled, but not before a skeletal hand shot out and grabbed the front of his shirt.

In the moment that the water was still rushing out across the table, a creature rose up, hauling down on him hard. Half of the top of its head was missing, and something sloshed out of the hollow there. Sharp little teeth, glinting in the scant light, leered close to his face as he lost his balance.

He tried to catch himself, and his hands sank through the thin sheet of water. His feet slipped on wet flowers. The thing's breath was on his face, the scent of a corpse in shallow mud; the teeth grazed his throat, its skin was damp and cold, and he was falling—

He twisted, pulling the blood wand free from the Other side, turning his shoulder in to the thing, and its claws raked a trail through his shirt. Before the proper incantation had even sprung to mind, he cast an _Incendio_, and a bloom of fire and force lit the room. He lost his footing and was thrown back against the side of the bed.

He heard a high-pitched shriek and a hiss as all of the water evaporated instantly.

Then the room was dark, save for a few embers. The little table was steaming and smoking. Harry pressed a hand to his bleeding chest, and tried to regain his breath as he slumped there against the bed. His breathing became erratic as he struggled with the desire to scream himself hoarse. He bowed over and rubbed the knuckles of his wand hand against his temple, hard.

That moment when he'd slipped, falling forward, and some part of him had thought _this was it_—he could still taste that panic, like acid.

That thing had spoken in Mud's voice; would the next one be able to _look _like someone he cared about?

He could get through this.

But the creature had sounded so much like Mud; he'd been so close to falling in—

He just had to be more careful in the future.

Hadn't the Black Lake said it would keep them from coming through?

But it obviously couldn't see everything at once… something had already tried to come through once before.

He scrubbed his fingers through his hair and slowly, he mastered himself. His thoughts cleared enough for him to realize his chest was on fire, and his shirt was soaked in blood. He uncurled from his hunched position. "_Sutura._"

The wounds sizzled, but stubbornly refused to close up. And this was with his blood wand, with which self-targeted spells should have been much more powerful. He would have to see Pomfrey. He briefly considered waiting till morning, but it would be stupid to risk bleeding out just because he didn't want to wake the school nurse.

With an inarticulate growl, he gained his feet. The little table was still smoking, but at the moment he couldn't be arsed to care whether the whole damn room burned to the ground. He peeled off his sticky shirt and, after a moment of indecision, tossed it at the table, which gave a hiss as the embers were doused.

Then he pointed his wand at himself, muttered another _sutura_ and a _scourgify_, grabbed an extra shirt, and set off for the infirmary.

Predictably, when he arrived the place was dark, and Madam Pomfrey was nowhere to be found. He let himself in, leaning heavily on the door, and lurched across the room to her office. He knew she kept a supply of medicinal potions on hand—hopefully she wouldn't be too angry with him for self-medicating.

He was feeling lightheaded, which was never good, and accidentally knocked a few things off her desk on his way by.

_Shit,_ he thought, blinking hard. A _lumos_ lit up the office, and he found the cabinet unlocked. The labels on the bottles swam in his vision, but he recognized many of them by their contents. _Blood replenisher_, he thought, grabbing one. _Flesh knitter_. He snagged another.

There were no instructions for dosage, and he didn't want to over do it, so he brought them over to his usual bed, laid himself flat, took a sip of each, and passed out.

* * *

"What in heaven's name—Potter!"

"M'fine," he protested before he'd quite remembered where he was and why.

"Morgana's left tit," cursed Pomfrey, sounding a tad hysterical. She was a whirlwind of spell casting, and when he finally cracked his eyes open, he decided her concern wasn't entirely unfounded.

"Wow," he muttered, trying to sit up. The sheets stuck to him.

"Stop moving, Potter!" she barked. Her face had gone pasty white, and Harry complied with her order if only to put her at ease.

"Really, I feel fine," he began.

"Lose a gallon of blood often, do you?" she snapped. Her diagnostic spells slowed after another moment, and she finally collected herself. "Explain."

"Well, er, I might have taken a bit more Blood Replenishing potion than was strictly necessary."

"Obviously. Thank you for this delightful tableau so early in the morning, by the way. But I was referring to the injury that caused you to bleed out so dramatically all over my infirmary."

"Oh," Harry said. "I was out, er, going for a walk by the lake last night, and something attacked me."

Pomfrey raised an eyebrow, her skepticism obvious. "Your lacerations do bear traces of poison. Can you describe the creature?"

"It… didn't have any eyes. Just this weird depression on top of its skull, like it was hollowed out. And sharp teeth, like a fish. And claws."

Madam Pomfrey looked baffled. "By the lake you say?"

Harry nodded.

The nurse massaged her brow. "What you describe is a Kappa—vile creatures who lure people to their death by mimicking someone the person knows and then drowning them. Usually Kappas target children. But they're native to the Orient—I've never heard of a sighting anywhere else."

"A Kappa?" Harry repeated. Another piece of the puzzle?

"Yes," Pomfrey affirmed. "That would account for the poison, and certainly explain why your wounds resisted healing."

"But they're all right now, yeah?"

"Yes," she sighed, as if reluctant to admit it. "But next time, Potter—please floo-call me rather than raiding my potions. You could easily have done yourself much more harm than good."

"I—"

"No, let me put that another way—no next times."

"Well, I can't—"

"Just do your best, Potter. You're a good lad, but a Healer doesn't like to see her patients this often."

Harry made his escape soon after, and spent about a half hour in the shower trying to scrub the blood off. A simple scourgify might have sufficed, but he knew he wouldn't feel clean without a good scalding. The Kappa's claw marks stood out luridly against his skin—right over his heart, as if the creature had been trying to gouge it out.

By the time he was dressed, Hedwig had returned, swooping in through the open window like a phantom.

"Hello, pretty bird." He retrieved an owl treat and lobbed it to her, where she snatched it out of the air. "Such a talented girl," he praised her, taking the note from her downy talon. "What did Tonks say, then?"

She twittered, watching him unfold the parchment.

_Wotcher, Harry!_

_We've got drills and conditioning today, but I can definitely do a late lunch! Meet me down at the gates around 2? There's an Indian place in London I've been dying to try. Do you like Indian? Let me know if there's some other place you'd rather go. See you soon!_

_-Tonks_

Harry did his best to ignore the little flip in his stomach and smothered a grin. He'd never tried Indian food, but Tonks' enthusiasm was infectious. He penned a quick affirmative.

"Sorry Hedwig," he murmured, offering her the note. "Just this one more, and then we can play some games when you get back, okay?"

Hedwig nibbled his fingers and took the note in her claw. After regally accepting a pat from Harry, she took wing again.

Harry watched her go, a fleck of white fading into the bright morning, before turning away from the window and cracking his knuckles.

"Time to make a body."

He made straight for the restricted section in the library this time; there were no two ways about it—this was the sort of thing that would not be in any Hogwarts lesson plan. He realized, as he skipped over such familiar titles as _Demonic Realms and How to Find Them _and _Kreaturs Moste Fowel Beyonde Byzantium, _that he was perhaps becoming too well acquainted with this part of the library. In fact, he could readily recall several books that he'd already perused which happened to have useful references.

"I'm turning into evil Hermione," he muttered to himself, passing over _The Human Ingredient—_dry and archaic, he had read it hoping to find out why his blood had been sufficient to power a blood wand, and had wound up learning more than he'd ever wanted to about which human body parts were most useful as potions ingredients.

As it turned out, there were plenty of ways to create a corpse—or at least a fair approximation of one. The average witch or wizard had been quite morbid up until a few centuries ago. Of course there were still outliers in the modern age, but there was a reason most of the more useful texts he found were written in various forms of old English.

Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately?—he didn't want a corpse. Karakash had been fairly explicit; it needed to be a living shell of some kind. When Harry had prodded him for specifics, the river spirit had amended that skin and bones should be sufficient—Harry wouldn't need to figure out the complexities of organs.

So there was that.

He came across a few mentions of ways to keep flesh suspended in such a way that it wouldn't decay, but that wasn't quite the same thing. Harry had a brief vision of gallivanting around Diagon Alley with a zombie in tow, and rubbed his forehead.

Pistol popped by briefly with an omelet for him, murmuring, "Always learning, Master Harry," in an approving sort of way.

"Thanks, Pistol," Harry said, offering a smile. The wizened house elf bowed before disappearing again.

He didn't have much luck until he nearly passed over a ratty old bit of magazine tucked in between some books. It looked like the kind of thing he remembered Aunt Petunia would occasionally mail-order things out of—toys for Dudley, or kitchen accessories. It was quite out of date, and most of the products seemed largely useless: a dog-house with a pocket dimension, self-stirring cauldrons, moving globes of the night sky, couches that would grow extensions depending on how many guests you had, collars that purported to keep your pet in its 'cute' stage, and living garments that would grow with you.

It was this last that caught his eye—it advertised fur pants that generated their own heat and lengthened over time, because they were actually alive. Harry could see why they hadn't really caught on; the idea of pants that had skin and blood vessels and fur was sort of creepy.

And yet… this might be exactly what he needed. He just had to figure out how to get his hands on a pair. Flipping to the back of the magazine, he found contact information—before he noticed the publication date: 1982.

He dropped his face into his hand with a groan.

Wait—maybe the pants had an individual manufacturer. He flipped back to the proper page, looking for a name under the description. Sure enough: _Magical Patent – A. Hughes._

Harry sat back, drumming his fingers. Could this person be some relation of Toliman's? Perhaps a more reputable sibling or cousin… What were the chances that A. Hughes had written a book about their findings?

He set off again.

His Point-Me spell didn't direct him toward any dusty tomes, but it did send him to the periodicals section—more specifically, back issues of Transfiguration Today.

"Hermione's probably read every one of these cover to cover," he murmured, pulling out several that glowed softly under his gaze.

Achird Hughes was a man who apparently had some radical ideas about Transfiguration, and articles about him-or papers by him—had graced almost every issue of Transfiguration Today up until about five years ago.

His theories were all interesting, and he'd had many in the field in a tizzy over future applications of his work, but Harry forced himself to focus on Achird's predecessor to the Growing Pants: Non-Traditional Applications for Living Materials.

Achird postulated that everything in the common witch or wizard's home could be made of this stuff. It would never wear out, it would be reactive to its owner, it could adapt and change as necessary—it could even take on personality, imbued with a rudimentary sort of intelligence.

Harry could see that these ideas both intrigued and disturbed a lot of Achird's peers. Many witches and wizards decried it as being tantamount to dark magic. The only objections that Harry could see that they might have were with the creation process: it seemed to rely on a sort of cloning for the base material.

Harry had no such compunctions. _This will work_, he thought with ferocious determination.

Achird's true genius lay in manipulating the material once it had been created, and so he wasn't concerned about sharing how it was made (which was likely how the creator of the Growing Pants managed). The paper he'd published about it at first seemed to be entirely over Harry's head.

Upon a second read-through, though, it began to make sense to him. It was unorthodox and convoluted, but to his faint surprise, he could understand it. He wouldn't need to enchant the skin to do anything once he created it; Karakash would be able to take care of that part. He just needed it to be the right shape.

What could he make out of it that was approximately a human's mass, but not actually a human? Because there was no way he was going to make the river spirit a vessel he could use that would bring him into direct interaction with people; that just seemed like a recipe for disaster.

Harry could just see it; Karakash walking around in a skin suit like he had some kind of palsy, calling out every human he saw and telling them he'd eat their children.

No—better he masqueraded as an animal.

Still pondering, Harry cleaned up his workspace, taking only the issue of Transfiguration Today that had published Achird's paper. It described what the man called a 'loom' that Harry would have to set up, which would weave the 'pelt.' It was a complicated bit of magic, but doable, given enough time.

Time!

"_Tempus_,' Harry murmured. The little glowing blue numbers resolved themselves to read _1:55 pm._

Harry cursed.

He didn't have time to go up to his rooms for a coat, but once he'd bounded down Hogwarts' front steps, he silently summoned one. Sure enough he could see, high above, a black shape swoop out from an open window. He caught it as he was jogging down the road toward the gates.

"I saw that," Tonks said a minute later, lounging in the shadow of one of the great winged boars. "So talented."

"Yeah," he said, smiling. "It's true."

"Seriously though, you should probably keep that wandless stuff under wraps."

Harry, who couldn't remember if he'd summoned the coat wandlessly or with his illegal blood wand, didn't have anything to counter with except a sheepish grin.

She rolled her eyes, but couldn't quite disguise her own smile as she grabbed his arm. "C'mon, Mr. Prodigy."

They disappeared with a loud crack.

* * *

Harry decided he liked Indian food.

Though his present company might have tinted the experience.

"So then," Tonks was saying, nearly incoherent with laughter, "Warner _whips_around and looks at me, sticks his nose in the air, and kind of struts away without even answering my question." She wiped a tear from her eye. "I think I've ruined my chances with him forever."

"You have to admire his strength," Harry said. His cheeks hurt. "I don't think _I _could have ignored you for that long."

"Yeah, but I actually _like_you."

Harry felt a warm thrill in his fingers and toes.

"Oh, but I shouldn't be so mean," she went on, composing herself. "It's not his fault that I wasn't aware of our fledgling romance—"

"Or that his name's actually Warren," Harry added, to which Tonks dissolved into helpless laughter again.

"I've—been—calling him—_Warner—_for five—_years!_" she squeaked, and Harry had to cover his face he was laughing so hard. She pounded her hand on the table, practically in a fit.

After they'd calmed down again, Harry said, "You'd think it would be easy to remember."

Tonks pointed at him with a piece of naan. "That's _true_, he does basically work in a warren of paper." She shook her head, chasing a bit of lamb around her plate with the bread. "I really need to find a way to make it up to him. Can't afford to sour him as a contact."

"Bring him flowers," Harry said.

Tonks reached over and smacked him lightly on the cheek. "So sassy!"

"I dunno, doesn't that usually make women happy?"

"You really don't like him!"

Harry shrugged. "Why do you even need him? Just teach everyone the spells."

"Well that's the whole point, isn't it? The fewer people who know them, the more secure the records are."

Harry had to concede. Anyway, he still needed to get a look at Tonks' portkey to the Dragon's Perch, and already an hour had flown by. How could he steer the conversation in that direction?

"Aside from the whole Warren thing, being an Auror seems pretty brilliant," he observed.

"Yeah," she agreed. "I can't really imagine a more satisfying job."

"And you get your own pub," Harry added. "Open all hours, inaccessible to the public…"

She laughed. "There is that, too. But I _don't_drink before five, I don't care what Marty tells you!"

Harry raised his hands. "I don't know if I believed half of what he said."

"Good," she said, giving him a squinty eyed glance.

"Like those teeth he uses for the portkeys," Harry began carefully. "They're not _really_dragon teeth, are they? I can't imagine that bloke actually killing one himself."

Tonks shrugged. "I kind of agree, but everybody gets one. Where else would he get that many bloody great teeth?"

"Hagrid says most dragons keep growing new teeth for their whole lives. The only way to tell if Marty pulled them out of a dead one is to see if the root is still on them. Can I see—?"

Tonks, bless her heart, was already pulling her portkey out.

_Yes!_Harry thought, holding it gently where it hung from Tonks' neck. His enthusiasm dampened slightly when he got a good look at it, bristling as it was with glowing spell parameters. He would have to study this for hours in order to duplicate it.

"It does still have the root," he heard himself say. This wasn't a total loss—very painstakingly, he peeled back the layers of enchantment until he could see: there! The destination. He wouldn't be able to recreate the portkey, but he now knew where the pub was located.

Hastily he repaired what he'd undone as Tonks pulled away.

"Well that settles it," she was saying with a grin. "I guess he is a secret badass."

"Guess so." Harry smiled back.

* * *

Lunch with Tonks left him in a sort of happy afterglow for the rest of the afternoon, as he worked to construct his loom. It wasn't a pretty set-up—he imagined Achird himself would have used very professional looking equipment in a laboratory setting, but Harry could only be assured of privacy in his rooms.

At this point the carpets were all rolled out of the way already, since he'd hollowed out a basin in the stone floor in which to summon Karakash the night before. Now he moved all of the furniture against the walls or out into the hallway to clear as much space as possible.

The loom design was deceptively simple. It required a reservoir for the input (dna material and a nutrient potion), a channel along which the first transfigurations occurred (conversion to pelt cells), and the 'shuttle' which would control the shape of the finished product.

Of course, since this thing would be creating living tissue and not a rug, it was a bit more complicated.

Harry was glad he'd learned about portkeys, and before that, spell creation, because otherwise he wouldn't have even known where to begin. By the time he was finished with his preparations, his room looked like a crazy person lived there. A large chalk diagram covered the floor, with runes scratched here and there to remind him where to put things. He'd used the pages of Achird's paper to draw up several blueprints, and brought out a few of his spell-smithing books for reference. He'd taken the glass pane out of his window to transfigure the various delicate tubes that would move the magically volatile liquid, and pressed into them miniscule runes of gold (from several melted down galleons) that would imbue his spell constructs with permanence. These were suspended above a ceramic reservoir full of the dna-nutrient solution, while on the other end the 'shuttle' spell would pull and form the transfigured cells inside a shimmering, vacuous field.

The room smelled faintly of yeast and hot metal; not entirely unpleasant, but definitely strange. Harry himself was tiptoeing through it all in bare feet and rolled up cuffs, and his hair stood on end more than usual.

The trickiest part lay inside that length of glass tubing between the reservoir and the weaving field. In Achird's paper, he talked about using as many as ten different chambers, and theoretically more, to give his 'pelt' the desired attributes. Harry was using only one, and he hoped he'd bound the transfigurative spells properly.

He stood back and surveyed his work for a moment. The pelt would come out like a big furry bolt of cloth—he would have to do some secondary transfiguration afterwards. He'd used his own hair, obviously, and was intensely curious about the result. The paper discussed factors that would play on the speed of production—Harry figured just from the size of his tools, it would likely take several hours to produce the size of pelt that he would need.

The only thing left to do was to start it up.

"Here goes nothing," he sighed, and tapped the glass intake over the ceramic basin. Completely defiant of gravity, a stream shot up and into the tubing, which itself began to glow hotly. Inside the chamber, the liquid swirled and sparked. Harry imagined fancifully that this was what the birth of stars looked like to a god. At the other end of the tube, matter began to coalesce in a mist of dark particles. Inside the weaving field, the shuttle swung into motion, moving back and forth almost too quickly to track.

Harry crossed his arms, and smiled.

* * *

Even though Harry knew where to find the Dragon's Perch, the fact of the matter was that he still didn't know how to apparate. Flying wasn't a viable option either, unless he wanted to spend the rest of the day traversing the countryside.

So while the loom did its thing, Harry set out to find a fireplace he could floo from. McGonagall's office was the closest that he knew of for certain, but when he arrived at her door, it was to find it locked.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it made sense for a professor to lock up if they weren't going to return for the summer. None of his unlocking charms were successful, and he stood regarding the door pensively for a long moment.

Then he grunted, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the river spirit horn. He poured water until the floor in front of the door was liberally flooded, running under the doorway and into the office beyond.

With a quick prayer that nothing was waiting on the other side just yet, he steeled himself, took a breath, and hopped in.

Rushing, sucking wind tossed him about and spat him out into the twilight version of Hogwarts. He only gave himself a moment to get his bearings—a quick impression of the vast castle beneath and around him, a breathtaking construct of glittering, glowing architecture—before he stepped through a now insubstantial door into the confines of McGonagall's office. Taking one more breath of the balmy, sulfuric air, he dropped back through the neon blue puddle to the real world.

He tumbled out onto the stone floor with a gasp, and immediately banished the water. He could always pour more, but he didn't want to take any chances with creatures trying to come through after him.

He wasted little time in the office, going straight for a likely jar sitting on the mantle. It did indeed contain floo powder, though McGonagall was getting low. He wondered if he should get her some more, before he realized he didn't know where one actually acquired floo powder. His blood wand thrummed in his hand as he lit a fire in the grate, tossed a pinch in, and said, "Leaky Cauldron."

The fire flared green, and he stepped into the maelstrom. The whirling, flashing sights and sounds were all familiar, but this time, instead of being hot and stifling, it grew increasingly cold. Harry tamped down on a growing feeling of dread, and when the floo finally spit him out, he tried not to scamper away from it too quickly.

When he brushed the soot from his clothes, he was surprised to brush away flecks of frost as well.

He didn't give anyone in the dim establishment time to recognize him, although he did give Tom at the bar a quick wave. Tom just gave him a toothless grin and a nod, allowing Harry to pass out into Muggle London unmolested.

His senses were assaulted the moment he stepped outside. The roar of traffic, the chaos of rushing crowds, the smells of greasy food and dirty engines, and looming buildings combined to dizzying effect. He was entirely too well accustomed to the pristine solitude of Hogwarts.

"Bloody hell!" shouted a cyclist who blurred by, narrowly missing Harry. Apparently he was inside Leaky Cauldron's influence still; everyone seemed startled to see him when they passed too close.

With the Dragon Perch's location in mind, he muttered a quick 'Point-Me' spell, and set off through the busy afternoon crowds.

A half hour later, he was standing on the sidewalk, staring up at the gleaming flank of a very tall building. People gave him odd looks as they passed him, but he mostly ignored them.

It struck him as poetic that he had to figure out how to break into this place just to figure out how to break into another place. _It'll be good practice,_ he told himself. _If you can't handle this, you've got no business with Azkaban._

By the time he had stopped deliberating over how he would do it, a small handful of people had stopped on the sidewalk and joined him in looking skyward, as if they thought he had spotted something interesting. "Those window-washers sure have it good," he commented pointlessly, and meandered away.

Once he'd rounded the building and found a relatively isolated recess, he took a quick look around and, satisfied, cast a disillusionment spell on himself. Looking at his own hand, he could hardly see a ripple in the air, and had to marvel at how effective the little black wand was.

He could almost imagine it rumbled in pleasure at his approval.

Quickly, he cast the gecko charm on his elbows and knees, and clambered up the side of the building. _Sixty stories to go_, he thought dryly.

It was a singularly odd experience climbing past so many levels of office spaces. While the people inside, going through their daily grind, couldn't see him, they could certainly hear the rattling sounds he made on the glass as he crawled along. It somehow never got old seeing them look around wildly, expecting some giant bird or earthquake or rappelling crazy person. A few times Harry licked the glass right in front of them, or breathed on it, leaving an imprint of his mouth and nostrils. That really freaked them out.

By the time he'd reached the sixtieth floor, however, he was trembling with exhaustion. Gecko charm or not, he'd still climbed several hundred feet straight up.

The Dragon's Perch was evident from the outside as a strip of stone and glass that was notably grimier than the rest of the building—although a tingling on his senses reminded him that muggles wouldn't notice it.

"Now the tricky part," he muttered to himself. He was plastered to the outside of a building like a limpet, and there was obviously no door. Time to test the soundness of his theory. In retrospect, it might have been a good idea to test while still on the ground.

Detaching one arm from the glass, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the river spirit horn once again. He knew he could slip through a horizontal puddle, but what about a vertical one?

Knowing he would have mere seconds to get through before gravity ruined his doorway, he took a moment to gather himself. Then, less gracefully than he would have liked, he pointed a jet at the window in front of him, pulled his limbs free, and slid sideways into the water.

Several minutes later, he emerged from the loo, hair still slightly damp. Coming out through the toilet hadn't been his first choice, but it was that or the kitchen sink, and he didn't think the dishwasher would react very well to a person coming up out of the wash. The truly harrowing part had been trying to decide whether the toilet he climbed out of would be occupied or not.

"Why, Mr. Potter!" Marty called from the bar. "A pleasant surprise! What brings you up here?"

Harry sidled up and took a stool near the end. "Tonks dropped me off. I told her I wanted another look at the place."

"Ah, she's a good lass," Marty said, winking. He uncapped a butterbeer and set it in front of Harry. "So what would you like to know?"

"Thanks," Harry said, ducking his head slightly while he tried to decide how to angle in at his objective. "Well, I was kind of curious how this all came about."

"What, running a pub for magical law enforcement hidden on the top of a high-rise?"

"Yeah, that."

"Ah, well that's a rather involved story. Sure you want to commit to it?"

Harry crooked an eyebrow. "Well, I thought I did."

"Of course you do," Marty agreed. "Well! In the golden days of my youth, I was part of what is known as Aurors Without Borders—"

"Kind of like Doctors Without Borders?" Harry supplied.

"Doctors—er, yes, the muggle Healers. Yes, a bit like that. Except of course, we were hunting dark wizards, and not setting up clinics and such. At any rate, over the course of my travels, I had the pleasure of meeting and interacting with hundreds of rank and file law enforcement types, and it always struck me how someone from Nepal and someone from France could be so different, and yet, because we all pursued the eradication of dark forces, we all got on famously."

"You had a dream."

"You're damn right I had a dream. I said to my buddies, I said: when I'm too old to chase these blackguard cunts up and down the mountains, I'm going to build a pub where we can all sit around and talk about chasing 'em."

Harry accidentally spit out little bit of his butterbeer. "That's quite the mission statement."

Marty nodded. "And I wanted it to be someplace where we wouldn't have to censor ourselves for the sake of muggles or the average magical citizen. Ah, how I managed to get this space is a story in itself."

Harry, sensing an impending odyssey, quickly derailed the barkeep. "So it's not just for Aurors, it's for everybody who works to, er, rid the world of evil."

"Exactly." Marty beamed. "Come to think of it, that means you as well, doesn't it?"

Harry felt his whole face flush. "I'm not like that at all; I'm just a kid who got lucky a few times. I don't work at it every day…"

He trailed off, because Marty had ignored him in favor of reaching under the bar. He tossed something onto the counter in front of Harry. It was one of the dragon-tooth portkeys.

"Welcome to the club, Mr. Potter."

A funny feeling ran through Harry then; he knew he didn't deserve this, but he also knew that he would earn it. He looked up. "Thanks, Marty."

The man clapped him once on the shoulder. "You're welcome. I know you'll continue to do us all proud."

Harry, unsure how to respond, decided to soldier on. "So who else do you get in here besides aurors?"

"Besides dark lord vanquishers?" Marty ribbed him. "Well, there's the normal hit-wizards, of course—there's a few of em over there in the corner booth. You've got your Obliviators and Muggle Liaison officers, and I believe that lady in the dark blue is a Canton diplomat—Canton being wizarding China, of course… Down at the other end of the bar there is an Azkaban Warden—"

"Really?" Harry jumped in with enthusiasm that was entirely genuine.

Marty's bushy red eyebrows furrowed. "Fellow by the name of Kip, I believe, due to head back tomorrow night in fact." He blew out a breath and shook his head. "Can't understand what makes a man take that post."

"Do you think he'd mind me asking him about it?"

"It's hard to say with that type, to be honest. Some of them treat it like a sacred duty, but others are just in it for the gold, and can't stand it otherwise. Kip's a decent sort, though."

"Thanks, Marty," Harry said, grabbing his butterbeer.

"Think nothing of it, Mr. Potter. Don't be a stranger," he added, pointing at Harry's new portkey, before moving on to other patrons.

Harry wended his way down the bar toward the man on the far end. The closer he got, the more he realized that Kip was deep in his cups, and evidently some fairly morose thoughts as well.

Harry quickly decided how he would play this, flattening his hair over his scar and pulling the label off of his butterbeer.

He toppled into the stool next to Kip with an emphatic, "Fuck!"

The warden gave him a woozy sideways look. "Amen t' that."

Harry took a sloppy swig of his drink, before driving his pointer finger into the bar. "Why do we bother goin to school for all those years just to sit behind a desk and not make enough money to pay for a place that looks like a… a damn cat lady died there?"

Kip burbled out a laugh. "I dunno, mate. Sounds better than a rock in the ocean. That's my flat, every other month."

Harry put on a faintly bewildered face. "What would you go and do that for?"

Kip let out another laugh. "Not cause I wanna, that's for damn sure. I work at Azkaban, s'why."

"Blimey," Harry slurred, making a face. Then he turned exaggeratedly thoughtful. "Bet it's pretty good money though, innit?"

Kip contemplated his glass. "Yeah. Dunno if it's worth it, sometimes."

Harry raised his bottle, splashing a little. "Here's to doing things you hate, cause you fuckin have to."

Kip gave a nod that nearly had him knocking his forehead on the bar. "Ay." He downed the rest of his drink. Harry raised his hand and ordered the warden another, with which Marty bemusedly complied.

Harry was going to get this man plastered. "So tell me about it."

* * *

An hour later, Harry was supporting a mostly incoherent Kip up the stairs behind the bar that led up to a modest inn over the pub. Marty had offered to take the warden up, but seeing as Harry and Kip were now best friends, it hadn't taken much convincing to let Harry do it.

"I fuckin love you, man," Kip was professing as they struggled up the stairs. "You're like my little brother."

"Uhuh," Harry said, blinking furiously against the onslaught of alcohol-laden breath. He'd managed to get almost all of the information he needed; how to get to the portkey room at the ministry that Kip would leave from, what time it would happen, what kinds of security measures they had. Now all he needed to do was borrow Kip's portkey, duplicate it, and slip in just behind the man when it activated the following evening.

Kip was drunk enough that Harry figured he had all night to work before the man would even be conscious, let alone think to check on the portkey.

"There you go, buddy," Harry said, having kicked open the door to the first room. He deposited the man into the cozy looking bed. Kip rolled over onto his back and promptly began to snore. Harry considered him for a minute, before sighing and pulling the man's shoes off.

Like many magical items of value, the Azkaban portkey was kept close—in this case, it was a pair of dog tags on a chain around Kip's neck. The man was so dead to the world that Harry had no problem removing them, or replacing them with a set he'd transfigured from a dresser knob.

That done, he turned the lamps down and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Down in the main pub, the place was even more crowded now that evening had fallen. It took a few minutes to get Marty's attention, as he was being kept busy orchestrating his fleet of servers.

"Just got a message from Tonks," Harry told him over the din. "She got caught up in something; can I use your floo?" He didn't fancy the idea of climbing down the side of the building if he could help it.

Marty waved him over to the big stone fireplace with a smile and a salute. Harry nodded his thanks, and tried to contain the giddy feeling of success. He tossed a handful of powder into the roaring flames, and zipped away.


End file.
